


Tomorrow Never Comes

by ideasCornucopia, Marlinspirkhall



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Download Available, Gen, Groundhog Day but make it murderous, Halloween, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Klingon, M/M, Mind Meld, Past Torture, Section 31 (Star Trek), T'hy'la, Time Loop, Tragedy, Tragedy/Comedy, star trek halloween bang 2020, time crystal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27270817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideasCornucopia/pseuds/ideasCornucopia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marlinspirkhall/pseuds/Marlinspirkhall
Summary: When Section 31 sends them on a stealth mission into Klingon Space, Kirk and Spock are trapped in a fight which could cost both of their lives. Sometimes, you have to kill for those you love, but what do you do when the dead just won't stay dead?
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 79
Kudos: 64
Collections: Star Trek Halloween Horror Bang 2020





	1. Play Me

**Author's Note:**

> My beta reader was the wonderful [@imzadi_deanna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imzadi_Deanna/pseuds/Imzadi_Deanna). You can check out her contribution to the halloween bang, ["In The Dark," here on ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27262447/chapters/66603130).
> 
> The amazing artwork was provided by my paired artist, [@ideasCornucopia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideasCornucopia/pseuds/ideasCornucopia).
> 
> The plot of this fic is based loosely on the horror/thriller movie “Blood Punch”, (2014).
> 
> If you'd prefer, you can download my fics in an e-book format from [this google drive folder](https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1E5ojR8SpwQQTAEC4QPbcCZRi7iJNpTmT?usp=sharing) link.

There’s a groan. Jim shifts, ever so slightly, and the overhead lights flicker on. The room is flooded instantly by a bright, neon green, as if every surface has been covered in ectoplasm from an old horror movie. He’s leaning against something hard, and he pulls away from it with a groan.

It’s a metal bathtub, set into the floor. Above him is a shower head, rusted with age, and the wall is in a similar state of disrepair.

He catches a glimpse of something on the floor. A streak of maroon runs round the outer edge of the tub, trails to the ground, covers the floor in a patch around his feet- and yet, there’s not a drop of it on him. He shifts, tentatively, and it flecks off the metal floor. Whatever it is, it’s been further discoloured by the lights overhead, and it takes him a moment to process it. _Not brown,_ he realises. _Red._

Something stirs his stomach. Most of it is darker, dried, but the puddle around him is only half-congealed.

He leans forwards, and grimaces. In the center of the bath, a message is scrawled in blood:

A long, jagged arrow points to the center of the bath. Tangled in a mess of frayed wires is a single screen, slightly larger than a PADD. It looks as if it's been torn out of a larger unit, like a spaceship or a space shuttle. Dried fingerprints. For a split second, Jim considers showing his discovery to the others, but the moment passes.

He reaches over, and turns it on. It crackles to life. A video is already queued, and it plays automatically. He fumbles with the screen, almost drops it, because- the person on the recording- is _him._ He looks different on the recording, though. The saturation of green, washing him out; the s trange way he watches the camera. An almost _alien_ confidence.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” the recording says, with a smile. “You don’t remember making this video. But, I assure you; you did.” He glances away for a moment, somewhere offscreen, and his voice softens. “It should be safe- he never comes in here.” He straightens up, and turns back to the camera. “But, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Jim frowns as the figure on-screen reaches for something unseen.

“Now, don’t panic,” says the recording. “I want you to remain completely calm.” There’s a glint of metal.

His eyes widen.

“Everything is going to be alright,” the recording says. He holds a hand out, flat, and raises the other. In one, quick motion, he brings the axe down. _Thud_. A wet, tumbling sound. A muffled moan, and a hiss. The sound distorts further as the camera is knocked to the floor, pointing up at the ceiling, and the screen is flooded by the bright, overpowering green.

Scuffling. A grunt of pain, then relief. The video shakes, and continues to tremble as the angle shifts, spins, and suddenly steadies. Jim notes the space where the trail of bloodstains ends. When he was recording, he must have placed it on the end of the bath.

His recorded-self blinks, and exhales shakily. His right hand is now wrapped in a towel; soaked through quickly by blood.

Jim stares down at his own hands. There’s not a scratch on them, and he still has all ten digits.

Past-Jim exhales, his face drawn with pain, and gives him a shaky smile. “Now that I have your attention,” he says, “Let’s start at the beginning.”

On the outskirts of Mars Colony Alpha is a large, concrete complex no-one discusses. A majority of the structure is buried beneath the surface, untold levels stretching beneath the dirt. Somewhere on the ground floor, James Kirk is onto his third book of the day. For the most part, he measures the days in books, and not the even, unbroken schedule of the guards.

The gymnasium is about the size of an indoor tennis court, claustrophobic walls painted shades of beige and grey which don’t quite agree with each other. The tops of the walls are set with small glass observation windows, the glass tinted just enough that you can’t be sure when someone’s watching you.

Some of the other inmates have formed small cliques, and Jim is reminded uncannily of high school. For his part, he keeps to himself, and takes up a space by one of the rowing machines. He’s so accustomed to ignoring the watchful gaze of the guards that it’s easy to pretend he doesn’t see the eyes across the room, studying him.

At lunch, it’s the same. He eats quickly, and keeps one eye on his stalker. He’s certain he hasn’t seen him before. Judging from the eyebrows, he could be Romulan, though it’s impossible to tell for certain, as his ears are hidden by long, dark hair. Still, Jim thinks, it’d be unusual to keep a prisoner of war on this level; most of the people here are ex-starfleet.

On the way out of the dining hall, he doubles back on himself, and slams into the man. He grunts, and Jim keeps walking, until he has him backed into a wall.

“Why are you following me?” He hisses.

The man tilts his head and stares down at him serenely, his dark eyes glittering. His hair goes just past his shoulders, and has a slightly silky quality. Up close, he can see that the man lacks the forehead ridges typical of Romulans- it’s far more likely that he’s a Vulcan. Jim slumps a little, his grip growing slack, but the man doesn’t move a muscle.

“Hey!” A guard yells.

Jim releases him with a blink, and turns on his heel.

Footsteps follow him down the corridor.

“That was not an invitation to continue,” Jim says over his shoulder.

“I assumed you wanted an answer.”

“Well, you know…” He walks faster. “A little mystery brightens my day.”

“In that case, I apologise in advance for depriving you of your entertainment.” The man keeps astride of him easily, and Jim grits his teeth.

“Don’t worry, you get used to it around here.”

“Mm. A man of your talents must get bored easily.”

The corridor splits in two, and Jim takes the left path. “And which talents would those be?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Your skill for decoding.”

“I’m flattered,” he laughs, “Though, that’s not what the academy called it.”

“Indeed. The academy had remarkably low tolerance for practical jokes.”

Jim slows. “Well, that all depends on the effectiveness of the joke.”

“Yes. Or, how well you cover your tracks.”

Jim snorts. “Well… Hypothetically speaking, of course-” he lowers his voice. “Why would you come to me? I wouldn’t be here if I was any good at that.”

“To respond in terms which are equally hypothetical- it is not a mistake you are likely to make again.”

“Ah; I get it-” a guard passes them in the corridor, and Jim gives them a cheery smile. “You want me to join the prison’s cipher team.”

The man nods. “That is correct. Though, the latest series of-” another guard passes- “ _Recreational puzzles_ would be presented to us in Klingon.”

Jim shrugs. “It’s possible, but I’d suggest a xenolinguist, instead.”

“Our search is limited to the confines of the prison-”

“Of course,” Jim gives him a searching smile. “You are an inmate, after all.”

“I always endeavour to remain discreet.”

“Oh; that’s a useful skill,” he comments, as they climb the steps to the dorm areas. “You’ll have to teach me some time.”

“If you’d like.” They climb the rest of the stairway in silence. At the top, the man lowers his voice. “It is unfortunate, when the government which incarcerates you falls.”

“And why’s that?” Jim breathes.

He quirks an eyebrow. “There’s no one left to overturn the ruling.”

“That’s true,” Jim murmurs, and heads for his door. “But I’ve only got three months left, and then I’m out of here-”

The man blocks his path. “Or, you could get out of here tonight.” He tilts his head a little, studying Jim intensely.

“What?” The corner of his mouth twitches. “With you and the cipher team?”

The man gives the slightest nod, and Jim considers it for a moment. It’s almost tempting. But, ultimately, whether he gets out today or tomorrow, there’s not much waiting for him outside.

He steps around him with an awkward smile. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you-” he pushes the door open, and steps inside. “But it seems that rumours of my intelligence have been greatly exaggerated.”

The man remains silent, yet there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“… Though, I’m still smart enough to do _this.”_ Jim says in a breathy whisper, as he swings the door shut.

At evening’s meal, Jim once again feels a pair of eyes on him, and pays firm attention to his plate. The main structure of the meal greatly resembles beets, and- if he concentrates enough- almost tastes like it. Still, his attention is split, and, when he next glances up, the man is no longer there.

He frowns, and spears one of the roots.

And sees something from the corner of his eye.

He sits bolt upright, sliding backwards along the bench with a prologued glare at his unexpected visitor. The man is back; watching him with unsettling intensity.

“You move fast,” Jim grumbles, and quickly stuffs his mouth to excuse himself from conversation.

“Yes.” Not completely without manners, he remains standing; his hands behind his back in a posture which looks strangely familiar. It hits him suddenly, and he tilts his head at the man. _At ease,_ he thinks, with a reluctant nod to the seat opposite.

He sits.

Jim swallows, and lowers his fork. “Let me guess,” he says, dully. “Your cipher team’s still one person short.”

The man nods, his face carefully neutral. “Our team leader will be disappointed.”

Something stirs in Jim’s stomach, and it’s not just dubious beets. “And… What happens then?”

The man almost smiles. “You need not concern yourself with it.”

“Uh huh.” Jim tries to remind himself to stay out of it. “But you didn’t come here to make small talk.”

“No.”

“You’re here to try and persuade me again.”

He blinks at him. A silent question.

“First, you’re going to remind me that this is a one-time opportunity, and, if I don't come with you, now, I'll regret it."

The man inclines his head. “I sound convincing so far. Then what do I say?"

"Then you tell me there's nothing waiting for me outside- I'd be lucky to get a job piloting a garbage scow, or something." He squints at Spock suspiciously, then laughs. “Son of a bitch.” He sits back in his seat. “That’s been your tactic all along,” he realises. “You were going to get me to talk myself into it.”

"It is not a tactic. You simply anticipated my arguments before I could state them.”

“And, if I hadn’t done that?”

He considers for a moment. “I would have attempted to make you see the logic in joining me.”

“Right,” Jim straightens up in his chair a bit. “You are a _Vulcan,_ after all.”

The man holds his gaze for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. “Is that enough to persuade you?”

Jim smirks. “Maybe. But you know more about me than I do about you- I don’t even know your name.”

“Spock.”

“Jim. But; you knew that.” He smiles, and sets his hands on the table with a slap. “How many people are on your... Cipher team?” The cafeteria is busy enough that they could talk openly, but Jim enjoys the slow-blinks Spock gives him when faced with unexpected information.

“Two,” he says, finally.

Jim stares at him. He studies his expression for a trace of the humour he saw before, but, apparently, the man is deadly serious.

Jim leans forward. “Granted, I don’t know the nature of the puzzles you’re dealing with, but-” he lowers his voice “- That doesn’t sound like nearly enough.”

“You will only be present for part of the operation.”

“Alright. So how many people are involved in the entire operation?”

“That is a discreet matter.”

“As, I suppose, is the question of who you’re working for.”

Spock nods.

“ _Discreet.”_ Jim repeats, as he gives him an unsubtle once-over. “And they sent... _You?”_

“I am capable of remaining inconspicuous,” Spock says, with the slightest smile.

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean people won’t _notice_ you.”

Spock frowns. “To what are you referring?”

Jim smiles, coyly. “I’m afraid that’s a _discreet_ matter.”

Spock stares at the table for a moment, expression unreadable.

“You want to know if you can trust me,” he says, finally.

“Yes.”

“You can’t.”

Jim gives an amused huff. “That’s not a very convincing argument.”

“Nevertheless, it is the truth.”

“I get it. You prove your honesty, I trust you, I leave with you.”

“I am not attempting to manipulate you; I am simply running out of time.”

Jim frowns.

Spock’s hands shift slightly under the table. “My partner, Leland, is breaking me out tonight- me, and the best hacker I can find.”

Jim sits back “And, to think: I thought you chose me specially.”

A breathy, almost-laugh. “He did.”

“I’m flattered.”

He watches Jim. “I…” He jerks his head. “Was not supposed to offer you a choice in the matter.”

“… Less flattered,” Jim murmurs, as his eyes dart to Spock’s hands.

Spock’s mouth twitches, and he lays them flat on the table. “I have no weapons.,” he assures him.

Jim lets out a breath. “Do you need any?”

“Well-”

The cafeteria is plunged into pitch darkness. A murmur reverberates around them, and someone yells. Jim grabs at the table with one hand, and reaches into his pocket with the other. He searches for the familiar, smooth blade handle.

 _It’s not there._ His heart pounds faster. _It’s in my quarters,_ he realises, trying to stave off a blind panic.

After a moment, the emergency lights flicker on: a bright, unrelenting red.

Spock tenses, his face bathed in the light, and he stares at Jim helplessly.

“It’s okay,” Jim places a hand on his arm. “It’s just a power cut.”

“No; it’s not.” Spock stands, suddenly, and surveys the hall. His grip is tight on the back of the chair. “It’s Leland. Stay here.”

He takes a step forwards. Chair legs scrape as Jim scrambles to his feet. “Where are you going?” He hisses.

Spock fixes him with a look. “To stop him from killing anyone.”

“What-?”

“ _Return to your rooms!”_ Bellows a guard.

Jim turns, but Spock has already disappeared. Cursing, he hurries in the direction he left, being buffeted between the crowd. He weaves his way down the corridor, and the lights begin to flicker overhead. He curses, and moves faster.

The lights fail as he’s half-way up the stairs, and he grips the handrail for support. The only source of light which remains are strips of bioluminescent paint which line the floor, tingeing everything in a faint blue-green. He stumbles to the top of the stairs. The few people who had returned to their cells wander out again, muttering amongst themselves, and the guards are nowhere to be seen. Jim reaches his room, out of breath, and leans against the wall, gasping.

He should just stay here. He should just lie on his bed, and wait for the situation to be resolved. Instead, he reaches into his mattress, and retrieves the small, fold-out knife. He runs his fingers over the handle for a moment, and then slips it into the pocket of his jumpsuit.

Downstairs, Jim skims his hand along the wall, to help navigate the pockets of darkness. The material is unusually coarse, like concrete with too many air bubbles trapped inside it, and there’s a scream up ahead. Heart pounding, he begins to move a little faster, passing the usually-secure area around the turbolift. Three inmates are clustered around it: two humans and an Andorian, bickering amongst themselves as they attempt to rewire the lock.

There’s shouting up ahead.

A guard stumbles into view, shouldering a phaser rifle. Jim freezes- but their attention is elsewhere, staring at something unseen. A yell echoes down the corridor, and it’s lit up by a flash of red, then blue, as the guard falls to the floor.

Jim grits his teeth, and he pokes his head round the corner.

The corridor is covered in debris, flakes of plaster and brick which _used_ to be the exterior wall. At the other end of the corridor, guards and escapees are firing at each other indiscriminately, and Jim doesn’t stick around long enough to find out if the weapons are set for stun. He simply retrieves a flashlight from the fallen guard, and slips through the gap in the wall, out into the self-contained atmosphere of the prison dome.

Outside, an alarm blares. His nose wrinkles. The air is thinner here, and slightly metallic. _Recycled._ He begins to walk uphill, figuring that the slight incline will help him find Spock- _if_ that’s still his goal. Still, he doesn’t see how he’s going to make it much further without him.

Still moving, he cranes his neck upwards. In the darkness, it’s hard to tell- the flashlight beam won’t reach that far- but he can just make out a large hole in the glass above him.

As if someone has smashed their way in.

The gap has been sealed by the self-repair protocol: a thick layer of fast-drying plastiform. He picks up the pace, pointing his flashlight at the ground as he comes over the crest of the hill-

A runs bang-slap into the side of a dark grey shuttle.

“Drop the weapon!” A voice growls behind him.

Jim blinks, and steps back from the metal surface. “No… It’s just a flashlight,” he stammers.

Something is pressed to the back of his head. The barrel of a phaser.

“Then drop the _flashlight,_ ” the voice growls. “A phaser blast at this range… That’s not something you come back from.”

The flashlight slips from his hands, and his heart pounds. He turns his head slowly.

“Don’t move.”

In the glare of the shuttle lights, Jim can’t see much, but he can just make out a pair of eyes, staring him down.

“ _Leland-?”_ Jim realises, as something hard crashes into the back of his head, and he crumples to the ground.

Jim wakes up at the back of the shuttle, lying on one of the stiff benches Starfleet was fond of calling ‘beds’. His head throbs, and he pushes himself up on his elbows with a slight groan. “What…?”

As he sits up, a thin blanket tumbles from his shoulders, and he feels immediately colder. Spock sits in one of the seats facing him, his gaze fixed on the wall, and Leland sits in the pilot’s seat. Jim stares at the back of his head, eyes bleary. He has short, dark brown hair, and a dark grey uniform.

Leland turns to him, and Jim spots a dark Starfleet badge on the front of his shirt. He throws Spock a questioning look, but he keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, his lips pursed.

Leland smiles. “Hey, Jimbo-”

“It’s Jim.”

“- James,” Leland waves a hand. “I’m sorry about pointing a phaser at you back there.”

Jim gives him an awkward nod. “It’s… fine. But-” He rubs the back of his head. “You do know those things have a stun setting, right?”

Leland smiles. “Well; I had no idea who you were.” He glances at Spock. “Tell him.”

Spock looks up. “He had no idea who you were,” he says, robotically.

“… It’s okay.” Jim glances between them, trying to work out the shift in the atmosphere while still nursing a headache.

“It’s not okay!” Leland insists. “We’re a team now, so we’ve got to trust each other.”

Jim closes his eyes. “Yeah, sounds good,” He murmurs. He leans his head back against the wall.

“Really?” Leland asks. “Because you don’t sound that enthusiastic.”

“I’m just-”

Leland snaps his fingers twice. “Spock?”

“You don’t sound that enthusiastic,” Spock says, dutifully.

“Alright,” Jim exhales, and glowers at him. “It’s just: if we’re a team, then I’d prefer to know who I’m working with. I mean; you can’t be _Starfleet._ _”_

Leland turns back to the viewscreen, and fixes his gaze on space.

“Or, maybe you could tell me what we’re _doing-?”_

“Relax. I’ll tell you the specifics when you get there.”

“But-”

Leland begins to hum to himself, and Jim’s gaze flicks to Spock. He, too, remains silent.

He surveys the shuttle. There are about six seats in total- seven if you count the bench- and everything is a dark grey. Whoever designed the interior was a utilitarian, not an artist.

There’s a pile of clothes at the back of the shuttle, and Jim notes that Spock, too, has changed into what appears to be a modified Starfleet uniform. He doesn’t recognise the badge, and wonders if they can really have gone through such an extensive redesign in six months. It’s sleek, all-black, identical to the one Leland is wearing. The last he’d heard, Starfleet didn’t even _exist_ anymore.

He rifles through the pile of clothes at the back of the shuttle, and changes into a pair of jeans and a red plaid jacket, feeling immediately warmer. As he swaps out the grey jumpsuit, he removes the knife from it, and slips it into his jeans pocket instead. Spock watches this without comment, but quickly looks away when Jim meets his eyes

Jim studies the tense way that Spock holds himself. His hands are tucked away, arms folded just a little too tight across his chest. The shuttle’s internal temperature is probably only programmed to account for human standards, and he knows Vulcans are accustomed to warmer temperatures. Wordlessly, he reaches for the fallen blanket, and holds it out to him. Spock stiffens, and fixes his eyes on it. He doesn’t seem to want to make the first move. Jim leans forwards, and drapes the blanket over his shoulders in one smooth motion.

Jim drifts off. When he next wakes up, the ship is orbiting a purple-blue planet covered in rivers and forests. The readout says it’s M-Class, but it appears to be deserted- no civilisation of any kind, with the exception of one, very faint, signal.

“What is this planet?” Jim asks.

Leland barely looks up. “Heirin.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t have. This is Klingon space.” He nods to something out of the port window. “There’s an outpost on that moon which monitors most of the traffic in this system.”

Jim looks up sharply. “And they just let us _wander_ _in?”_

“The magnetic disturbance from the asteroid belt on the other side of the system should have masked our signatures. Besides; they’re not on the look out for a little ship like this.”

Jim searches the skies in the direction indicated. “Let me guess; this is going to be our little hacking project?”

Leland gives him a look. “We want you to shut down the outpost via remote link. Heirin is just going to be our base of operations.” He grins, and sets the shuttle on a landing path on the night-side of the planet. Jim watches the tops of the purple-leaved trees get closer, and

“And, when the Klingons find out about it?” Jim asks.

“Relax. It’ll be a long time before they can find someone brave enough to investigate.”

Jim folds his arms. “Klingons aren’t famous for their cowardice.”

“No, they’re not,” Leland hums. “But, for this planet, they’d make an exception.”

The shuttle continues to descend, flying over the purple-leaved trees and passing over vast swathes of pink fields. They cross over a wide river, flying low over a forest which looks distinctly greener than the others they’ve passed so far. Up ahead, a tall structure rises from the trees.

It’s three three stories tall, and made mostly of dark metal. A gap in the center suggests that part of the building has since fallen away. They land in a clearing, to the right of it. Jim steps out of the shuttle, and surveys it from this new angle, as Leland and Spock unload a case of supplies from the back.

“Where’s the server room?” Jim asks.

Leland arches an eyebrow. “You don’t need to see it yet. Relax a little.”

“Right… but you _do_ have one, right? This place looks pretty broken down, and I can’t hack a Klingon outpost from this distance with your shuttle alone, no matter how high-tech it is.”

Leland stares at him for a moment, his expression suddenly sombre. “If I told you where it was, what’s to stop you from shooting me?”

Jim gives a little huff of laughter. “I can think of many reasons, Leland, but number one would be: I don’t even have a phaser.”

Leland laughs in return. “Yeah?” He hands him one. “Well, you do now.”

Jim stares down at his hands in surprise as Leland begins to move towards the stronghold, whistling.

‘ _What the fuck is wrong with him?’_ Jim mouths, but Spock only stares at him.

“Cosy,” Jim comments, as he hauls the first crate into the central hall. Everything about the stronghold speaks to Klingon architecture, but the interior has clearly been redecorated by humans. Large rugs and carpets cover sections of the floor. A wide sofa and two arm chairs sit on one side of the room, with a dining table on the other side.

He prises the top off one of the crates, and peers inside. It contains numerous phaser power-packs. “I don’t think we’ll be needing all of these,” he says, with a nod to the far wall.

An innumerable collection of weapons adorn them, of Terran and Klingon origin. They’re assembled with seemingly little order, hung at irregular intervals by nails hammered into the wall. Five bat’leth’s, a crossbow with a laser, and a gin'tak spear. There are others, too- Romulan, Andorian- things he can’t quite place.

“Whoever was here left in a hurry,” Jim says.

“Or, they never left at all.” Spock says quietly.

On the opposite wall is a large fireplace, comprised of neat, pink stone. The Mantelpiece almost looks like granite, although it’s much smoother. The material is probably local. A single staircase stands to the left of the fireplace, ascending through to the next level. The dining table sits to the left of this, just in front of the windows.

Jim wanders through a set of glass doors, and out onto the balcony.

A Veranda wraps around the second level of the stronghold, seemingly an afterthought: unlike the rest of the building, it is fashioned from a pale, beige wood. It doesn’t resemble any of the trees he’s seen on the planet so far, and he wonders if it’s been imported. He could almost believe it was built by humans, but the pillars follow the trappings of Klingon architecture: angular, wooden supports, slotted into reinforced bases. Still, it could all have been done in an attempt to mimic the existing styles. The one anomaly is a single, spiral staircase just off the center of the platform.

He keeps walking until he gets to the end of the allotted area. There’s a second, smaller communal area attached to the Veranda, fashioned from the same imported wood. Tattered banners adorn the walls, a dusky red: The emblem of the Klingon empire. Three triangular spikes jut out of a ring of white, and Jim stares at the symbol, rooted to the spot, realising for the first time that he’s deep in enemy territory.

In front of the flags is an alcove, which someone has evidently attempted to make comfortable by adding flimsy red cushions. Still, if this was intended as a place to sleep, he can’t imagine it would suffice, because, despite all its comforts- and the ceiling overhead- it is still, technically, exposed to the elements.

There are more pillars laid out in front of the alcoves. As he goes further into the area, his eyes widen, and he stops walking.

“Leland?” He calls over his shoulder.

There are footsteps as Leland approaches, and surveys the carnage in silence.

Blood stains the base of the pillar, some red, some magenta, and the cushions have been scratched up. There are places where the furnishings have been ripped away entirely, and one of the cushions is a deeper red than the others; a carpet placed over a strategic place on the floor. A single blade lies on one of the scuffed-up cushions. It’s Klingon: the blade is shaped like an arrow, with a decorative line cut out of the center. A d’k tahg.

Leland approaches it with interest, and Jim spies a bloody handprint on the wall.

“I thought you said The Klingons never came here,” Jim breathes.

“Worried?” Leland grins, and reaches for the discarded d'k tahg. He twirls it between his fingers before adding it to his belt, a glint in his eye. “Don’t worry; by the time we catch their attention, you’ll be gone.” He claps him on the shoulder, and moves back along the balcony. Jim breathes shallowly, the feeling of foreboding intensifying.

They return to the shuttle via the spiral staircase, and finish unloading the supplies. Everything comes in unmarked boxes, but Jim assumes that the rest of this must be food- although, if anyone is the type to pack more ammunition than food, it’s Leland.

Jim leans on a crate. “You still haven’t told us what this place is, exactly.”

Leland shrugs. “I thought it was self-evident: An abandoned Klingon stronghold.”

“But _why_ is it abandoned? They can’t have forgotten about it,” he says, with a nod to the pylon on the roof.

Leland grins. “The Klingon’s know about it, but they avoid this planet like the plague. There are a lot of… _S_ _uperstitions_ attached to this place,” he says, cryptically.

“What; are you going to tell us a scary story?” Jim folds his arms.

Leland smiles. “I might. But you’d need to gather some firewood... Scary stories are best told around a campfire.”

Jim hesitates, and thinks of the nice, warm-looking fireplace in the cabin. Still, he wouldn’t mind the chance to explore- and to get away from Leland for a while.

“Fine.”

Spock stands stiffly, perhaps from the cold, and Leland turns to him. “Go with him, Spock. Make sure he doesn’t get… _Lost.”_

Jim spreads his arms wide. “It’s a big planet. Where am I gonna go?” He bellows over his shoulder. His voice echoes off the trees.

The bark of the trees here are tall and green, and he’s reminded, suddenly, of the moss back on Earth. The thought is accompanied by a familiar gut-punch, so he instead focuses on the plant life which surrounds them. The trees are surprisingly thin, despite their great height. He’s so busy craning his neck that he stumbles on something hard. He braces himself on a nearby tree, and Spock comes to a sudden stop behind him. The rock he tripped on is covered in a thin layer of bioluminescent fungus. The mushroom itself is a bright, sickly shade of green, though the light that it emits is more pleasant, soft lime.

Behind him, Spock shuffles restlessly, so Jim steps to the side. They make fleeting eye-contact as Spock takes the lead, treading a path through the untouched undergrowth. Though he’d never admit it, Jim feels a small thrill of adventure. He remembers the days when he wanted to join Starfleet; the promise of exploring the unknown too tempting to resist- before _The Unknown_ came to kick their ass.

Jim watches the back of Spock’s head, and wonders what’s going on in there. The man he’d met on Mars Colony and the man in the shuttle were two very different people, which he’d initially blamed on Leland’s influence. Still, there’s something unsettling about Spock’s continued silence.

“So, tell me,” Jim says. “Why were you in that prison? Leland couldn’t do his own dirty work?”

Spock barely glances at him. “He would have been recognised.”

“I’m sure.” Jim trots alongside him. “But, _you_ being in there- that wasn’t just a cover, was it?” He studies Spock’s profile as they walk, trying to work out how close he is to the truth.

A cyan light shines off Spock’s face, and still, he says nothing.

“C’mon,” Jim swipes a branch out of the way. “A guy like you should have made Captain in what, five years, maybe six?”

Twigs snap underfoot.

“That was _your_ goal, was it not?” Spock says, finally. “To become the youngest Captain in Starfleet history, on a bet?”

Jim straightens up a little. “How did you know-?”

“-And the reason you thought it necessary to cheat on The Kobayashi Maru.” He raises a brow pointedly, and sets off towards the woods at a fast march.

Jim slides on loose stones as he hurries after him. “You knew Captain Pike,” he realises.

“Yes.”

“So, it _wasn’t_ your aspirations which landed you here. A mistake, then?” A branch catches in Spock’s hair, and ricochets back into Jim’s face. “Ow!” He hisses.

Spock glances back. “A mistake.”

Jim glowers at the back of his head, and rubs his jaw. “I’ll say,” he mutters.

“Perhaps-” Spock halts without warning “-We are both here for reasons outside our control.”

Jim rubs his nose.

“- As you said earlier; it _is_ a big planet.” Spock turns to him. “Big enough that it is not entirely inconceivable that you could make it back to the shuttle without Leland’s notice.”

Jim blinks at him. “I’d need the keys for that,” he says, finally.

“You would,” Spock says, neutrally. “And you would find them, in my pocket.”

“I wouldn’t get very far.”

“Perhaps. But, the treatment Klingons give their prisoners is likely to be kinder than Leland’s.” He turns to keep walking, but Jim grabs his elbow.

“And, what; you want me to strand you here with him?”

“Preferably not. But, whoever leaves will have a greater chance of escape as long as the other keeps him distracted.”

“Then- why not you?”

“I am responsible for bringing you here.”

He chuckles softly. “Perhaps. But _I_ chose to come. And I’m not leaving without you.”

His eyes dart to him. “Then you are a fool.”

Jim grins. “And I thought it was obvious.”


	2. Ghost Stories

Leland ignores Jim’s protests that there’s a perfectly good fireplace inside the stronghold. “Ghost stories are best told around an outdoor fire,” he insists, as he arranges the green logs into a star-shaped pattern.

“Right,” Jim says, with a pointed glance towards Spock. “But it’s _cold.”_

“It’ll be warm once it gets going.”

Spock shivers.

“But-”

There’s a blast of phaser fire.

Jim jumps backwards with a yelp. His hands dart to his belt, struggling to unhook his own phaser, and the campfire springs to life.

Leland roars with laughter, and Jim grits his teeth.

Spock shuffles closer to the fire.

They gather around the fire, and Leland distributes packages of field rations; unpleasant things which Jim hasn’t eaten since survival training in the academy, and, truthfully, hasn’t missed much.

He makes a face. “This is worse than prison food.”

“Spock doesn’t think so,” Leland says, flatly.

“I don’t think so,” Spock repeats, his hair falling over his face.

They eat in silence for a moment, and Jim watches the fire determinedly.

“So,” he tries to keep his voice light. “I didn’t think Klingons _had_ ghost stories.”

Leland settles opposite him, still grinning, and holds his hands out to the flames. “Well, it’s more about this planet, and this stronghold. Legend has it that, centuries ago, it was built as a shelter for Koloth’s men during the civil war. Driven from Kronos, they came here, and spent months plotting, in secret- until the empress’ forces finally caught up with them. It was a night very much like tonight: a full moon overhead.” He gestures to the sky.

“The scouting party found Koloth as he slept, and attempted to slit his throat. Enraged by their lack of honour, a great battle was fought here, day and night. They say as many Klingons were killed as there are stars in the sky, and the valley was stained pink with their blood. Koloth fought until he was the only warrior left standing, and returned to Kronos, victorious, to reclaim his place in the first empire. The Klingons sing songs about him: ‘The Great Koloth fought, until there wasn’t a single enemy left.’”

“And not a single friend, either,” Jim comments, quietly.

There’s a crackle as the fire gets steadily lower, and Leland makes no move to revive it.

“You know a lot about Klingon legend,” Jim says, finally.

Leland’s mouth twitches. “Know thy enemy.”

The fire sputters out, and Jim blinks, face stinging in the sudden cold. “You’re planning to attack Kronos.”

Leland kicks at the fire, and peers up at Jim with a strange smile. “I couldn’t say.”

Jim rubs his arms. “Do you really have the military capacity for something like that?”

Spock stares at the space where the fire used to be, and says nothing.

With a crunch, Leland grinds his heel down on the log, crushing the embers with a sloping smile. “You just worry about taking down that outpost.”

He holds his gaze for a moment, but Jim is the first to look away.

The moon lights the way back to the stronghold, and they walk in silence. Spock follows close to Leland, never overtaking, and holds himself stiffly. Jim trails behind them. Once they get a certain distance away, a chirping begins in the forest. It reminds him of crickets; the sound aching familiar, and he keeps walking with a heavy heart.

When they return to the central hall, Jim leans against the wall, and watches Leland move the last of the crates upstairs. From the way he’s holding it, the contents appear to be heavy- it doubtlessly contains more power packs. Enough to last a small group of people months- or years- on an undercover mission.

He clenches his hand.

Spock looks out of the window. His shoulders still hold a lot of tension, but he looks marginally warmer. He wants to approach him, but, before he can make a move, there are heavy footsteps down the stairs.

Leland returns, and his eyes settle on Jim.

“Something to say, James?”

Jim jerks his head.

“Come on.” Leland steps closer to the table, and gives him a cold smile. “We’re all friends here.”

Jim inhales. “You’re not Starfleet.”

Leland’s mouth curves upwards. “Not quite.”

He glances at the black badge. “You’re wearing their uniform.”

Leland waves a finger, and shakes his head. “Section-31,” he grins.

“Section-31?”

“A branch of Starfleet Intelligence. Separate, to a point, but our primary goal is the same: to ensure the survival of The Federation.”

Jim shakes his head. “Good job.” He whispers. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed; but there _is_ no Federation. There is no Starfleet. And, if Section-31 survived while everything else didn’t, it means you sat by and watched the Earth get destroyed, like-”

 _Cowards._ The word dies on his tongue as Leland moves closer, reaching for his belt. Jim freezes, expecting to find a phaser pointed in his face. Instead, he drops it on the table.

“Like you did?” Leland says, with a dangerous calm.

Jim follows his gaze, and bites his tongue.

He’s looking at Spock.

Leland looks back at the table. “You don’t like phasers much, do you, James?”

Jim forces a smile. “I like them a lot better when they’re not pointed at me.”

“Oh, but that’s part of the fun! You see, they’ve never made a better lie detector.” He unslots the power pack from the back of the gun and holds it up to the light.

Spock turns sharply. “Jim-”

“- Shut up.” Leland hisses. “I didn’t ask you a damn thing.”

Jim takes a few steps forwards, trying to direct Leland’s attention towards him, but his gaze is on Spock once more.

“See,” he spins the cartridge in his fingers. “Without this, it’s just a lump of plastiform. But, combine them…” The phaser chimes back to life again, and Leland turns his head. “Spock? Come here.”

Jim’s breath hitches. “Don’t bring him into this-”

“He’s _my_ agent. I’ll _bring him into_ whatever I like.”

“ _Leland-”_

Spock shoots him a warning glance, and Leland clicks his tongue impatiently.

“It’s something to behold. That Vulcan stoicism, paired with the fearlessness of Section-31… Well.” He raises his phaser, and nods at the wall. Spock takes a step forwards, and sweeps his fingers through his hair as he does so. Then, he stands against the wall as indicated, and remains perfectly still, arms by his side. Jim had thought him reserved _before_ , but now, he’s practically a statue.

Quick as a flash, Leland sets the phaser settings to maximum, and levels it as Spock, his fingers resting lazily against the trigger.

He pulls.

At the last moment, he points it at the ceiling. It burns a hole into the metal above, and Spock stares ahead, unflinching.

“Incredible, right?” Leland breathes.

Jim follows Spock’s example, and keeps his face impassive. “He must trust you a lot.” He sounds calm, but his eyes are blazing, and he hopes Leland can feel it.

Leland turns to Jim, almost as if he can. “He does,” he says, with a cold smile.

Spock’s eyes dart to him for a fraction of a second, and his eyes widen almost imperceptibly.

“But,” Leland wheels on him. “We were talking about _you,_ James.”

“Okay,” Jim says. “Put the phaser down, and we’ll talk.”

“No.” He bares his teeth. “You want to talk about _Federation_ values? You think they would be willing to risk a _Vulcan_ on a mission like this?” He chuckles. “They’re an endangered species, after all-”

“It’s not your life to risk!” Jim explodes, and Leland laughs.

“I don’t think you _get it,_ James. He owes me a _life debt._ And you…” His mouth twitches into a smile. “We saved you from prison. Oh, I know you _wanted_ to be there, so you could sit out the war in peace-”

“That’s not true-”

Leland waves the phaser at him. _“Don’t. Lie!”_

Jim raises his hands, though he knows it’s useless, and keeps his voice flat. “I didn’t _choose_ to sit out the war.”

“No?” The phaser is turned, once again, on Spock. “I think, when you hacked The Kobayashi Maru, you were clumsy on purpose. You wanted to get caught, because were afraid you couldn’t live up to your old man; afraid to give your life for the war he started-”

Jim lunges. He rips the cartridge from the phaser at the same moment Leland pulls the trigger, and remembers, too late, the first lesson in phaser safety: _never discharge an active power pack._

All three of them are thrown clear by the force of the explosion, and the power pack is propelled upwards. With a clatter, it disappears into a gap in the ceiling. From the look of it, it once held the fitting for a light attachment or chandelier, but now, it’s nothing more than a shallow shelf.

Jim pushes himself up on trembling arms. Spock stands slumped, leaning against the window, his eyes half-closed. Leland sits on the floor a few feet away from him, blinking in surprise. Jim watches him for a moment, his heart pounding, as Leland climbs to his feet, and dusts himself off.

A moment later, he guffaws. “Sleep well, James. We need your encryption skills at their _best,_ tomorrow.” He ascends the stairs, and Jim watches him listlessly, his heart still racing.

Once Spock has gone upstairs, Jim curls up on the sofa, too exhausted to find another place to sleep.

The minute his eyes close, he finds himself sitting around a campfire with Leland and Spock. This time, they’re in a cave, the walls a deep shade of magenta. There’s a strange, humming sound. The others turn to him with perfect synchronicity, both deadly silent, and watch him without blinking. Jim turns his head slightly, and something drips onto his face. It’s strangely warm, and he smears it with his fingers.

More drops rain down on him; deep pink, then red. He swipes at them, but they begin to fall faster, and thicker. His hand comes away wet, and yet, when he studies his palms, they’re bone dry. He stands up, panicked, and there’s a sharp pain on the side of his head. He cries out, gripping his

“Someone’s bleeding,” he realises, belatedly, as a single, dark glob of red drips onto the floor in front of him. It falls from the ceiling, a mere drip at first, then a puddle, then a flood. He stares at Spock imploringly, but his eyes are trained, determinedly, on the wall.

“Help…” Jim whispers, as he crashes to the ground.

_Whispers. Screaming. His heart, ripped out of him._

His mouth fills with dirt.

“ _I think someone might be hurt-”_

He wakes up with a gasp, and sits bolt upright; heart still racing. He frowns, certain that he was dreaming something, but it quickly fades.

He examines his surroundings, and notices things in the daylight which he hadn’t yesterday. The carpet by the doorway is tracked with dirt, and other, more maroon stains. He frowns, and wonders how many of the human smugglers who set foot here met unhappy ends.

His stomach turns. He hadn’t felt it as strongly last night, but now, the stronghold feels uncannily like death. He’ll be glad to get out of here as soon as possible. To that end, he pushes himself to his feet, and wanders out through the glass doors.

A short distance along the veranda, and pauses. Beside the outdoor staircase, Leland is leaning against the railing with his back turned. He’s admiring the view, and yet, Jim gets the feeling that he’s waiting for him.

He takes a deep breath, and calls attention to himself. “Alright.” He grits his teeth. “Let’s-

“-get this over with,” Leland almost sighs.

Jim stops dead in his tracks. “Uh, yeah.”

Leland doesn’t turn. “What, no breakfast?” He says, in a voice which is uncharacteristically flat.

Jim blinks. He has half a mind to ask Leland if he’s feeling alright. “Well, I’m-”

“- Not hungry,” Leland says, finally turning to Jim. His eyes flash with something he can’t decipher, and he sets off down the spiral steps.

“… Yeah.” Jim blinks, and follows.

The server room has an odd familiarity to it. Consoles have been built into the walls, and wires trail all over the floor. If he listens carefully, the entire room is filled with a low, constant hum.

Feeling strangely uneasy, Jim begins the hacking procedure. As he works, Leland glances over his shoulder every so often. He paces the cabin restlessly, and, all the while, Jim works haltingly. After the first hour, Leland turns unusually silent and attentive, and he feels faintly uneasy. Still, he’s glad of the silence; it allows him to work without breaking his concentration.

Half an hour later, Leland begins asking odd questions about the process, ranging from _oddly specific_ to _wildly inaccurate._

He keeps working.

Two hours later, Leland’s breath is hot on his neck. “What would you do if the system didn’t use base-10?”

Jim frowns. “The Klingons _do_ use Base 10.”

“Humour me.”

“It depends on the system. I’d have to get a good look at it before I attempted anything, but-”

Leland grunts in frustration, and points a phaser at him.

His heart flutters. “What’s going on here?” He raises his hands.

He scowls. “What do you think?”

Jim swallows. “If you kill me, you won’t be able to disable that Klingon outpost-”

“Oh, we’re _long_ past that.” Leland leans over Kirk.

Slowly, Kirk reaches for his pocket, and Leland wheels on him. “If you so much as _touch_ that knife, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

Jim raises his hands again, as Leland types the rest of the subroutine with an almost… _practised_ precision. Much faster than Jim would have been able to do it.

“How did you-?” His heart beats a little faster in his chest. “If you already knew how to do that, why did you bother bringing me along?”

“Well, that’s the thing: I _didn’t_ know how to do it before I met you.”

Jim stares.

“But, I know now, so-” The phaser goes up. “I _don’t_ really need you alive, after all.”

Jim takes a few steps backwards, talking quickly. “What do you plan to do when the Klingons find you? You’ve got, what, _a day_ , at most, before they catch up with you?”

Leland laughs. “Maybe. A Day.” He smiles beautifically, and levels the disruptor directly at his chest. “But, what is it they say, James… _‘Tomorrow Never Comes’_?”

There’s a click. Jim winces.

And nothing happens

“What the….?” Leland pulls the trigger again, and stares at the disruptor for a moment. Jim opens his eyes, and breathes a small sigh of relief. The

“Of course,” Leland growls. _“Spock.”_ He breaks into a nasty grin. “Nevermind,” he says. “I don’t _need_ a phaser to kill you.” He discards it, and pulls the d'k tahg from his belt. “I’m going to kill you, and then, I’m going to deal with that Vulcan traitor.”

Heart thundering, Jim dives for the door, and begins to run for the forest.

“Oh, no you don’t-”

His legs are swept out from under him. Jim falls to the ground, heart thudding, and scrambles backwards. Leland lunges at him again, and he rolls away from it, landing on his stomach. Winded, he attempts to retrieve his knife, but it’s trapped by the weight of his leg.

Everything goes silent. Leland gasps in surprise. Jim looks up.

Leland is frozen, a surprised scowl on his face. He collapses forwards. Jim tries to crawl away, but he topples onto his legs.

Jim cries out.

Spock stands a short distance away, poised, his phaser still outstretched.

“… Spock?” Jim pants.

He doesn’t react.

“Oh, fuck,” Jim says, breathlessly. He groans, and kicks Leland off his legs, expecting resistance, but the man has already gone still.

Jim pants. “What setting was that phaser on?”

Spock stares at him with wide eyes, his long hair frazzled. The phaser slips from his hands, and Jim grabs at it. The display is almost too dim to read, but he can just make it out.

“Full power?” He glances at Leland’s body. “It should have disintegrated him.”

Spock makes a small noise, and grasps at the end of his hair, drawing it across his face. Jim catches his breath for a moment, and clambers to his feet.

He takes a step forwards.

“Spock,” he murmurs.

Faint sniffling emanates from behind the curtain of hair, and Jim places a hesitant arm around him. As he’s holding him, Spock sinks further to the ground, shivering, and Jim sinks down beside him, pulling him close. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s all over.”

A faint sound.

“We can go home-”

For some reason, that only makes Spock tremble more, and Jim is struck, suddenly, by the mental image of a planet, exploding. He takes a small breath. “Right,” he murmurs. “We can _leave,”_ he corrects himself, but Spock begins trembling. Jim senses something through his touch, a tangle of thoughts.

_Can’t leave. Can never leave. Never getting out of here-_

Before he can make sense of it, Spock seems to realise that he’s projecting, and pushes Jim away roughly. He gets to his feet.

“Spock-”

He begins to run towards the stronghold, and Jim lets him go; turning back to the body with a grimace.

He could always disintegrate Leland, but, if the phaser didn’t have enough power to do it when Spock tried, it’ll be next to useless now. He doesn’t understand it: that power pack had hardly been used.

He grits his teeth, retrieves a shovel from the server room, and begins to dig.

Once finished with the grave, he turns back to Leland’s body.

It’s not there.

Jim turns his head.

There’s a low, gargling sound.

Heart in his mouth, he swings round. Leland towers above him, his eyes wide, and feral. He grins, but the joyful bravado of before has vanished.

“Leland-?!” Before Jim can react, the man throws himself forwards, clutching at his shoulders. The shovel clatters from Jim’s hands.

“Ask him-” he coughs up blood. It spatters onto Jim’s face; he flinches. Hands snatch at him, encircling his wrists. “- Ask him how I knew!” He laughs, his voice like nails, chin covered by rivulets of blood. Jim yells, claws at the fingers holding him, and tears himself away.

Leland starts laughing; deranged, unhinged giggling, as Jim’s fingers close around the curved handle.

_Swish._

He hits him with the shovel, and there’s a sickening _thwack._ Leland drops like a ragdoll, and Jim falls back onto the bank, breathing raggedly.

He stares at the crumpled figure for a moment, and reaches forwards to feel his arm. If only he had a tricorder, a medical scanner, _anything_ to be _sure_ this time. With trembling fingers, he places his hand on his neck.

There is no pulse.

The next few moments are a blur. He covers the body with jerky movements, flinging mud haphazardly. It scatters everywhere, covering everything but its target. Jim shakes it from his hair, and blinks it from his eyes. He’s shuddering too much now to do much else. He shifts tiny scoops of Earth, as Leland stares up at him with glassy, accusing eyes.

Jim trudges away from the grave, trembling, weighed down by his waterlogged clothes. When it started raining, he had continued shovelling until Leland was well and truly covered. By the time he had finished, the ground was so churned up that it was no longer dirt, but mud. He’s relieved, in a way: it wouldn’t have felt right, to leave him uncovered. The man was a creep, sure, but he didn’t deserve that.

He retrieves some spare clothes from the back seat of the shuttle, though they’re covered in a thin film of dust. He frowns. He knows the ventilation systems on the shuttle are far from perfect, but he’s still startled by the progression of it. Frowning, he shakes the dust off, and shelters the clothes under the least-muddy part of his shirt, and then pelt back to the stronghold, slipping on the wet ground.

The main door opens with a groan of protest. It could be Jim’s fatigue, but he swears it feels stiffer than it did yesterday. The second he steps forwards, it slams shut behind him, and he stands shivering in the dark.

A door opens above him, and light floods into the corridor above. Spock shuffles forwards, looking concerned, but calmer than earlier. Jim wants to ask if he’s okay, but his teeth are chattering so much that he doubts he’ll be able to get the words out.

“James,” Spock says, in a small voice. He grips the banister, and waits at the tops of the stairs. Jim attempts a reassuring smile, but it’s more of a grimace. He peels his jacket off, and drops it on the floor. It rakes like sandpaper across his skin. The thick plaid, once-red, is now coated with mud, and other things.

Arms now bare, he shivers in the sudden coldness.

He thunders up the stairs, every clank echoing in the large space.

The sound reverberates upwards, and he follows the noise with his eyes. The ceiling stretches far above them, as if there were once more levels to the stronghold which have since rusted away. When he drags his gaze away, Spock’s eyes are on his, watching him intently, as if trying to communicate an important secret.

Jim frowns, and comes to a halt right in front of him.

“Feeling better?” He whispers.

Spock tears his eyes away with a nod, and ushers him into the room. Jim tempers his breathing, trying to get his heart to stop racing.

As he steps into the hall, he’s hit by a wave of heat. The fire has been lit. He smiles at Spock gratefully, and the man offers him a stiff nod in return. Suddenly more aware of the way his clothes cling to him, he shivers.

Wordlessly, he heads for the downstairs bathroom. The lights flicker on, a warm, candlelight yellow. He looks at the mirror, and flinches.

A blood-soaked figure stares back at him. Parts of it are dry: near his scalp, the neckline of his shirt, a neat outline of the plaid jacket- anywhere that was sheltered from the rain. The first thing he does is wash his hands, paying extra attention to the mud under his fingernails.

He feels like Lady Macbeth, scrubbing at specks of blood which are no longer there.

By the time he’s finished showering, Spock has disappeared. Jim heads upstairs, and finds him in the largest bedroom, curled up on one side of the bed. Jim watches him for a moment, marvelling at how peaceful he is, then lays a blanket over him. He closes the door, descends the stairs as quietly as possible, and settles on his now-familiar perch on the sofa. It occurs to him that there are other areas of the stronghold which he hasn’t explored yet, but he’s too exhausted to move; though he doubts he’ll be able to sleep. He looks out of the windows: tall, towering structures which loom twenty meters above his head. It offers a perfect view of the mound in front of the forest, even as the topsoil is smoothed and flattened by the storm. He begins to shake violently, as he tries not to think about the last time he felt this way, nine years ago.

It seems, the moment his eyes close, it’s morning again. Though the windows are tinted, they don’t quite block out all the light.

He opens his eyes blearily, feeling oddly well-rested, and freezes.

He’s wearing yesterday’s clothes.

He kicks the blanket off himself- a blanket he’s fairly sure he didn’t fall asleep with- and jumps to his feet. There’s a familiar weight in his pocket, and he pulls it out to check. _The pocketknife._ Frowning, he checks under the pillow where he left it last night, but it disappears. His clothes- the plaid, the shirt, even the denim jeans- are completely dry. What’s more, they’re completely clean.

He pats his legs, once, to be sure, and returns the knife to his right pocket, feeling very uneasy.

“Spock?” He wanders out onto the veranda, and winces in the sudden sunlight.

He stops dead in his tracks. Footsteps are climbing up the stairs.

 _Heavy_ footsteps.

“Rise and shine, campers!”

Leland’s head bobs into view, and he begins whistling a tune.

Jim stumbles backwards, thrusts his hand into his pocket, and freezes. Leland stares at him, mid-note, and frowns.

“What’s wrong, James?” He grins. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”


	3. Repetition

Jim peers at the apparition in front of him- almost convinced that he _is_ a ghost, until Leland slaps him on the shoulder, and makes his way into the central hall.

A breeze picks up, and Jim pulls his jacket tighter around himself, once again surprised to note that the fabric is every bit as clean and starched as it was before the storm. He rubs his fingers over the soft-but-scratchy fabric, reassuring himself that he’s really standing here right now. He peers into the hall. Leland is standing by the fireplace, head tilted, examining something intently. Jim remembers Leland giving him that same concentration yesterday, before revealing he had memorised most of the hacking process himself.

Had it all been some terrible, intense dream? It had seemed _so real…_

 _The grave,_ he thinks. _That’ll explain it._

He scurries through the central hall, and down the corridor towards the main entrance. At the bottom of the stairs, he stumbles over something soft, and grabs the metal stair-rail for support. He glances down. There, in a puddle of mud, is the plaid jacket he discarded yesterday.

It’s still damp.

His eyes widen, and he runs his hands over his sleeves. He’s wearing identical patterns, albeit less mud-stained, and he’s damn near certain that the clothing pile in the shuttle didn’t have any spares. He pushes the doors open- there’s definitely more resistance than there was a few days ago- and heads towards the grave.

Unlike the shirt on the stairwell, the dirt is bone dry; as is the rest of the ground. Almost as if it never rained last night. Still, the Earth has been disturbed, nonetheless. He remembers reading about ancient earth folklore- bodies crawling out of dead, zombies- and wonders if that might be the case here.

As he approaches it, his heart sinks. The dirt has been flattened down on top, and there’s nothing to indicate that something’s crawled its way out. He picks up the discarded shovel, and digs quickly.

A nose.

He stares at it, and crouches down, scrabbling at it with his hands. He doesn’t stop until he uncovers the rest of Leland’s face. Just to be _sure._

With trembling hands, he covers it back up again and stands up, dusting his hands off on his pants.

“So, I didn’t imagine it,” he breathes.

“No,” says a voice behind him.

He jumps backwards with a shriek, and wields the shovel like a weapon. Spock blinks at him, eyebrows raised.

“Spock,” Jim hisses, and drops the shovel. “What the hell is going on? Leland just appeared on the Veranda-”

“I know.” Spock murmurs, and pulls a phaser from his jacket. “I saw him.”

Jim’s heart thuds, and he glances back to the stronghold. “Is that really necessary? Things got out of hand yesterday, but we could try to reason with him-”

“Jim. It’s _Leland_. He cannot be reasoned with.”

“No.” Jim shakes his head, and points to the grave. “But I’m not doing that again.”

“Jim…”

He grabs his shoulders. “Not again.”

Spock holds his gaze. “Alright. Talk to him.” He places the phaser back in his jacket, and takes a step in the opposite direction.

Jim. “Where are you going?”

His face hardens. “To get ammunition.”

He heads towards the server room.

Jim watches him leave, suddenly apprehensive. Then, he turns on the spot, and heads for the stairs.

When he returns to the central hall, Leland has hardly moved. He’s still staring at the fireplace, with a strange, lopsided smile.

“The firewood,” Leland says, without turning. “You gathered some from the woods nearest us last night.”

Jim blinks. “… Yeah?”

“Then why are these branches from the East Side of the ravine?”

Jim examines the logs more closely. These logs are much thicker than the ones he collected, and it bleeds a faint purple hue. Nothing at all like the brittle green wood he and Spock had collected the night before.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah?” Leland laughs gruffly, and glances at Jim’s feet- or, perhaps, the mud he had tracked in on the carpet last night.

Jim shifts uncomfortably, and steps in front of the window, hoping to block Leland’s view of his own grave.

“Son of a bitch,” Leland whispers. “I never thought for a moment that the legends were true.”

“Legends?” Jim asks.

Leland ignores him, and reaches his hand towards one of the daggers on the wall. He touches the edge reverently, in the same way a collector might study a painting.

Jim sticks his hands in his pockets, feeling the knife as he glances around. The walls are lined with an uncountable number of weapons and tools- more than a person could use in a thousand lifetimes.

He doesn’t realise the blade is missing until it’s too late.

Jim had buried the d’k tag with Leland last night, he notices that Leland has chosen a different Klingon knife: a two-pronged, serrated blade. It could either be a kut'luch or a mevak, but Jim has no time to study it as it rushes towards him. He jumps out of the way, but it catches him in the side, and he stumbles against the wall. The breath is ripped from him, and he slides to the floor, disoriented.

He attempts to reach for his own knife, but Leland grabs his wrist, tutting at him. “Now, that’s not a very good idea, James.” He reaches into his pocket, confiscating the knife and throwing it a short distance away. It skitters under the table.

Leland gets to his feet, and kicks Jim’s knife wound. Jim gasps, and rests his head against the wall, trembling. There’s a swish as the doors open, and Leland exits out onto the veranda, his footsteps stomping across the wooden boards.

Shaking with effort, Jim climbs to his feet, but Leland returns moments later, and slams him into the wall.

“Where’s Spock?”

“Why?” Jim laughs, and winces. “I thought he was _your agent.”_

“He _was.”_ He presses a hand to his throat. “Until you compromised him.”

“Wasn’t me,” Jim wheezes. “You did that yourself. Try treating people like humans every once in a while-”

“He’s _not_ human,” Leland squeezes harder, and Jim gasps. He claws at Leland’s fingers, kicking out at him, but he’s losing air fast. He stops struggling, and waits for Leland to release him, but, apparently, Leland is too smart to fall for it.

He chokes, and goes limp for real this time; Leland is the only thing keeping him on his feet. As if sensing this, Leland slams him to the ground, and loosens his grip slightly.

Jim gasps desperately.

“Where is he?” Leland hisses, his hand still on his throat.

“Find him… Yourself...”

“If you insist.” He plunges the knife into his stomach, and twists.

Jim screams.

He drops Jim back against the wall, and stalks over to the window. “The shuttle’s still here,” he snorts.

Jim clutches his stomach, painfully aware that the knife handle is the only thing keeping all his insides in, and breathes shallowly.

Leland turns. “That’s what I love about Vulcans. Their sense of loyalty.” He scowls. “Like dogs, they’re always looking for the next person to go crawling to.” His mouth curls with contempt. “I guess that’s you.”

Jim twitches, and glowers at him.

“Alright,” Leland shrugs, and crouches beside him. He grips the handle of the knife. “You know, James; you should thank me for killing you first. Because you don’t want to see what I’m going to do to-”

Downstairs, the main door slams shut, and Leland turns.

“Change of plan,” he whispers, with a grin.

“Spock,” Jim croaks. He sits up, and tries to shout, but his strength is fading fast. His head falls back against the wall, and he pants desperately.

“Save your strength,” Leland murmurs. “You’ve got front-row seats; why waste them?” With a wide smile, he creeps over to the doorway, knife raised, and peers into the dark corridor.

Jim sits very still, listening for any sound which might tell him what’s going on.

The silence stretches on.

Soft footsteps on the balcony. Jim turns his head,

The glass doors slide open, and Spock steps inside without a sound. His eyes widen when he sees Jim, and he levels a phaser at Leland’s back.

A shout. Jim struggles to keep his eyes open, but the last thing he sees is Leland, disintegrating.

Jim opens his eyes with a groan.

True to form, his shirt is immaculate as it was yesterday, the tear in the fabric completely gone. But, now for the true test. He holds his breath, and lifts his shirt up.

No pain. The area has been bandaged, but he’s surprised he didn’t bleed to death. A spot of blood stains the front of his dressings, but he has the strangest feeling...

He sits up, and peels the bandages back gingerly. He lets out a long breath. The skin doesn’t bear as much as a scratch- it’s as if he never got stabbed. His throat is remarkably un-bruised. The only proof that it happened at all are the bandages, discarded on the sofa, and a half-congealed puddle by the window. Feeling disconcertingly healthy, he climbs to his feet, and crosses the hall to the glass doors.

He steps outside, and walks along the length of the veranda, searching for Spock. For a horrible moment, he worries that he’s alone. _What if Spock was disintegrated, too?_ But, someone had to have bandaged him, and it sure as hell wasn’t Leland. After a while, he emerges from the purple trees to the east, moving slowly.

Jim frowns. “Spock!” He shouts, and runs down the steps to meet him. Spock waits for him by the forest, and, by the time Jim gets there, he is out of breath.

“Jim.” Spock eyes him. “You are uninjured?”

They continue the long walk up to the stronghold, and Jim is gripped by a sudden fear. “I was as good as dead. If _I_ came back, then Leland-”

“- Is dealt with.”

“For today,” Jim says.

“Yes-” He stumbles, and his mouth sets into a long, thin line.

Jim glances down. There’s a cut on Spock’s thigh, oozing blood, but he strides forwards as if he can’t feel it.

Jim struggles to keep up. “Are you alright?”

Spock nods, stiffly, and keeps going.

“Spock, wait-” Jim touches his arm lightly, and unzips his jacket.

Spock hesitates. “There are bandages-”

“- In the stronghold, I know.” He shrugs the jacket off. “But; what the hell. It’ll probably come back tomorrow, anyway.”

Spock relaxes a little, and allows Jim to wrap the jacket around his leg.

“Unless you want to get out of here today,” Jim babbles, almost conversationally. “I mean-”

“No,” Spock looks away. He mutters something, but all Jim hears is _“… tomorrow.”_

“Hmm?” Jim ties the sleeves around his leg, and looks up.

Spock tilts his head. “Tomorrow is fine.”

They continue in silence for a moment, and Jim feels suddenly foolish. If it wasn’t for Spock- or the apparent healing properties of this planet- he would be dead by now. They ascend the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “And _\- if-_ he comes back again, I’ll help you.”

Although Spock insists he’s fine, Jim instructs him to rest his leg, and spends the rest of the day exploring what’s left of the stronghold.

He starts with the basement. It’s freezing, and seems to stretch directly beneath the server room; although the only way into it is a staircase hidden behind a stone entrance, just to the left of the spiral staircase. He finds a handful of power packs strewn across the floor. Most of them are empty, which explains why it hadn’t taken Leland out on that first night. He sighs, and surveys all the empty crates. If he had moved them all down here while he and Spock were sleeping, it might explain why Leland was coming up the stairs the other morning. Still, Jim can’t work out how he would have moved them all himself without making a lot of noise; or _why._

Still, there are more pressing questions: when they’re going to get off this planet, what to do about Leland, and what the _hell_ is going on.

One of these is easier to answer than the others.

Although they’re mostly limited to melee weapons, the idea of taking Leland down is more palatable now Jim knows it’s probably not permanent. He figures they only need to get Leland out of the way long enough for them to leave the planet, and then he can deal with the Klingons- or Section-31- on his own.

Upstairs is a large bathroom, and the two bedrooms which he had seen in passing two days ago; although the smallest one looks largely untouched. The larger is strewn with objects he hadn’t noticed before, but the bed has been neatly remade and folded. Suddenly feeling like a trespasser, Jim closes the door slowly. A large window above the stairway provides a clear view of the grounds, centered on the entrance to the basement.

“So,” Jim says, as he descends the stairs. “Did you see Leland come back to life the other morning?”

By the window, Spock looks up, and shakes his head. He sits at the dining table with his arms folded in front of him. Jim has a strange feeling that there were more chairs here the other night.

“I’m just trying to work out what this is. Some kind of Section-31 contingency plan?” Jim clears the bottom step, and wonders, perhaps naively, if that’s why Leland was so careless with Spock’s life. “There could be nanites in our bloodstreams, healing us, but that doesn’t work, because he was disintegrated-”

“This was not caused by Section-31.” Spock says.

“Then… What?” Jim chooses a seat opposite him.

“That’s what we have to find out.”

“Right.” Jim wags a finger at him. “So, nanites are still a possibility-”

“Jim.”

“Nanites you don’t _know_ about,” Jim says. “They could be in the atmosphere of this planet, or-”

“My own superficial injuries were healed only while I was sleeping.” Spock says, with a gesture to his leg. “Nano-technology would begin to fix the damage immediately.”

Jim grins. “How would you know?”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I am versed in the _theoretical_ parameters nanotechnology.”

“It was worth a try,” Jim says. He looks up. “What do you think is happening?”

“I… do not know. The regenerative process appears to rely less on a specific time, and more on our own _sense_ of time. From my own limited observations,” he amends, and smooths down his hair almost self-consciously.

Jim frowns. “What do you mean?”

Spock’s eyes dart around for a moment. “I believe your healing took place while I was mediating yesterday.” He hesitates. “To be precise; I was _unable_ to meditate yesterday. In the evening, it began to rain, and I cleared my mind. There was a… Blip,” he decides. “And then, it was morning.”

“Are you suggesting we’re in some sort of… time loop?” Jim says. “Isn’t it possible that you just-”

“Lost track of time?” Spock’s mouth twitches, and he looks at the table. “It is possible, but unlikely.”

Outside, it begins to rain, and Spock raises an eyebrow at Jim imperiously.

“It is, of course, also possible that this planet gets a lot of rain, and has the remarkable ability to suppress our appetites. Or-”

“Alright.” Jim slumps against the table. “It’s a time loop.”

“Rise and shine, campers!” Leland’s voice echoes up the stairs, and Jim grits his teeth.

“Ready?” He whispers. Spock nods, and heaves one of the dining chairs into position over the balcony. Jim holds his breath.

Step, step, step,

Leland’s head bobs into view.

“Now!”

Spock hurls the chair down the stairs with a clatter, and the humming stops. There’s a muffled grunt, followed by a cascading slump. After a moment of tense, torrid silence, Jim takes a deep breath, and ventures down the stairs. He finds Leland pinned spread-eagle against the guardrail, his chest weighed down by the heavy remains of the chair.

Spock’s voice is hesitant, but carries well. “Is he dead?”

Leland’s neck hangs at an unnatural angle.

“Yes.” Jim grips the guardrail, and looks away. “He’s dead.”

As they already know that the body won’t disappear on its own, they spend the morning scouting for a place to put it, and finally settle on a ravine to the east, hidden behind a blanket of dark purple trees. It’s near enough to the stronghold that it’s not too much of a detour to get there, but out of the way enough that Leland won’t stumble across it by mistake, should something not go to plan. Unable to ascertain whether or not the shuttle’s power is self-regenerating, but wary of the state of the power packs, they decide to postpone their departure until they know more.

The chair doesn’t reappear the next morning, which Spock deems _“fascinating.”_

*

Keeping Leland subdued proves difficult. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t take kindly to being tied up, despite Jim’s polite attempt to explain to him that this is the only way to spare his life.

For his troubles, he spends a fretful night worried that he might lose an eye- although, of course, by morning, it is healed.

“Leland knew something, though,” Jim says. “That first day.”

Spock frowns. “What?”

“He told me to ask _you_ how he knew about the hacking procedures. I mean, if it’s a time loop…” He watches him expectantly, and Spock shakes his head.

“I have no idea.”

Jim watches him carefully. “Maybe we should ask him.”

“Very well.”

Spock returns to the central hall covered in blood- most of it his own- though there’s a smear of red above his eye.

“… Alright,” Jim grits his teeth. “Maybe if we jump him _right_ as he respawns, then he won’t have a chance to grab a knife.”

“Unless he had a dagger with him the first time he was killed,” Spock murmurs, almost absent-mindedly.

Jim’s breath hitches. “What?”

Spock looks up. “Your… Pocket-knife reappears with you every morning, does it not?”

He blinks. “Well, that’s different. I _keep_ it in my pocket. It’s not as if I’ve lost it so far.”

Spock nods, and his eyes dart away.

*

The next morning- although Jim knows better than to call it ‘the next day’- sticks to the established pattern. Leland wakes up in the morning, believing it to be the first, and Jim studies the assortment of items on his belt as he climbs the stairs. A phaser- empty, by now- and something tucked into his waistband.

A d’k tahg.

Head spinning, Jim straightens up, and attempts to give Spock an unbothered smile. They try a different method. Between the two of them, they overpower Leland, and tie him up in the server room, which only makes him more irate the next day.

“It is interesting to note that he only retains memories as long as he remains alive,” Spock observes.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Leland shouts.

He never gets an answer.

*

After a while, Leland becomes easy to predict. He usually attempts to stab Jim in the stomach, and, failing that, his thigh. They continue their attempts to interrogate Leland, with limited success: whatever is going on, Leland seems to catch on quick. He won’t tell them, though. Every time they give him enough information to work it out, he attacks them. Granted, in most cases it doesn’t take much to goad Leland into an attack, because _‘kill James’_ always seems to be fairly high on his priorities list; and anything he perceives as _suspicious behaviour_ only moves it higher.

“I think,” Spock wheezes, as he nurses a minor stab wound, “We should discontinue this avenue of research.”

“You’re probably right.” Jim tears his shirt into strips, and raises an eyebrow at him. “At least we know we’ll never run out of bandages.”

“Jim.”

“Sorry,” he laughs, and begins to bind the wound. It is curious, though. The dermal regenerator never had any power, and the box ran out of actual bandages days ago. As if he knows what he’s thinking; Spock locks eyes with him.

 _Maybe he does,_ Jim thinks, as his fingers brush against his skin.

*

Jim searches for a technological solution first. He scours the Klingon files for any reports of Zombie Warriors or miraculous rebirths, but there’s nothing. He scans subspace for any reports from elsewhere, with the same results.

“Perhaps the electronic files are getting wiped by the time loop,” Jim speculates, hopefully. As usual, Spock maintains a neutral expression, patiently humouring his every theory, no matter how outlandish. Jim is a little surprised that he doesn’t recommend any of his own, but, when pressed, Spock is always elusive.

“Leland always made the plans.”

Jim supposed that makes a kind of sense. It’s not as if he knows the guy, no matter how much he hopes he might, and years of being raised by the secret-service can’t do wonders for your self-esteem.

“I just wish I knew what triggered it,” Jim ponders. “What started the time loop? Does it rely on someone getting hurt or inured? Did Leland begin it?”

Spock looks away. “Perhaps.”

*

After a morning of rooting around in the server room, Jim finds something interesting under the floorboards. As he ascends the spiral staircase, Jim hears angry voices up on The Veranda. He slows, trying to muffle the sound of his footfalls.

“- you two talking last night,” Leland says. “You tried to help him escape, didn’t you?”

“And he refused.” Spock grunts.

“Really?” He breathes heavily. “Then why were you trying to kill me?”

Jim shoulders the heavy Romulan disruptor, and hopes against hope that it works. He reaches the top of the stairs. Leland pins Spock down with the threat of his dagger alone: pointed directly against his neck.

“I wouldn’t care if you were the last Vulcan alive,” Leland growls, and presses the blade closer. “I’m still going to-”

“Hey, jackass!” Jim calls.

Leland turns. Jim pulls the trigger, almost thrown backwards from the force of the blast.

“You fucking-!” Leland disintegrates with a screech.

Jim exhales shakily. “Hey, Spock.”

“Jim.” Despite being out of breath, Spock adopts the same disinterested tone he always has when Jim is flirting with him. Still, it’s possible that there’s a tinge of gratitude in there somewhere. “From where did you acquire the disruptor?”

“There’s a secret passage in the server room,” he says, casually. “Most of the other stuff there is pretty out of shape, but I figured this still had enough juice for one more shot.” Smoke pools from the barrel, and Spock quirks an eyebrow.

“It is fortunate that you were correct.” He says, with a glance at the fallen d’k tahg.

Jim smirks. “I’m sure we’d have thought of something.”

“Mm.”

There’s silence for a moment, and Jim shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m not going to find anything,” he murmurs, an apology in his voice.

“So, what do you propose?”

“Well,” Jim says, as he casts aside the spent disruptor. “There must be a million ways to kill someone in this place. How about we try every single one of them to see which one sticks?”

It’s messy at first. Jim didn’t think that Spock would be comfortable graduating to more _inventive_ forms of murder, but, clearly, section 31- or Leland- have taught him well. A part of him feels a strange, yearning sadness for the loss- not just for Vulcan culture, but of his own. Of course, there are fewer Vulcans scattered around than humans, and Jim is almost grateful that _he_ wasn’t the first to corrupt one of the few remaining members of a once-peaceful species. Still, there are parts of it which follow Surakian ideology.

“… The most logical way to kill him,” Spock demonstrates. “He bleeds out faster.”

“Isn’t there such a thing as a ‘Vulcan nerve pinch?’ Jim asks.

Spock stares at him. “Yes,” he says, finally. “Though, I never learned it.”

“I suppose it’s not a skill that section 31 can teach you.”

“No.”

“A pity; it could have saved us from all that business with the chairs.” They abandoned their attempts to knock Leland out from a safe distance, otherwise they would have run out of dining chairs. Three currently sit around the table, and the third remains as a mere formality, as if they're holding out for unexpected guests.

What he wouldn’t give for a phaser with enough energy to stun.

*

While Spock seems focused on the most _effective_ way to dispose of Leland, Jim suggests that the key may lie in the most creative way to dispatch him, a plan which is, according to Spock, “illogical.” Still, the man is nothing if not thorough, so he begrudgingly consents to the experiment. They lay out a series of traps, snare Leland in various places around the stronghold, lure him into the woods, and do things the likes of which Jim hasn’t seen since Tarsus IV. Things he hasn’t _done_ since Tarsus IV.

Leland is almost single-handedly defining the definition of _last words._ A significant number of them revolve around the phrase “I didn’t think you had the guts.”

“Neither do you,” Jim replies, through gritted teeth.

This is in the early days, when he’s not yet accustomed to _entrails,_ and he spends the afternoon trembling in the server room, until Spock eventually coaxes him inside.

*

“Rise and shine, ca-!”

_THWACK._

There’s little lasting satisfaction from the banter between them; there’s only so many times Jim can watch the light dim from Leland’s eyes after landing a particularly witty one-liner, and, eventually, he finds himself trying to invent new theories, and formulate new plans of escape.

“What if we just… Fly? Set off in the shuttle, and see how far we get?”

He watches Spock’s face for any flicker of emotion, but- irritatingly- that seems to be the one Surakian principle he was able to master before he was orphaned.

“Very well,” Spock agrees.

Predictably, they don’t get very far. As soon as it’s Jim’s shift to sleep, they wake up in their beds back at the stronghold, the shuttle parked in the same spot outside.

As if they never left.

*

Sometimes; Leland escapes a trap, or avoids it entirely, and they take it in turns to check, each morning. Today, Jim and Spock sit in the great hall, looking over their starmaps.

Spock points to the top. “We can eliminate a further six light years from our journey if we go through Klingon space.”

“Maybe,” Jim studies his face. “But do you really want to get captured by the Klingons? I know you said, earlier, it’s no worse than what Leland could do to me, but-”

“What the _fuck_ are you two talking about?” Says a voice from the doorway.

Jim and Spock exchange a look.

“You didn’t take care of him?” Jim says, in a hushed tone.

Spock shakes his head. “I thought you did.”

“It slipped my mind.”

Leland struggles for his phaser. Jim sighs, and reaches for his knife.

“Set down on that planet,” Jim says. “I want to try something.”

The planet is rocky, the skies overhead a bright, candyfloss purple.

“How’s the dilithium?” Jim calls to the back of the shuttle.

“The same,” Spock reports.

It’s difficult to tell, as dilithium is, by nature, volatile, but, for now, the fuel component of the shuttle does appear to be self-replicating. Whether this will last or not, only time will tell.

“Good. Whoops-” Jim wobbles, and hugs the edge of the doorframe to help him climb out. “It’s quite a step down,” he says, as he offers a hand.

Eyebrow raised only a fraction, Spock takes it, and steps down out of the shuttle onto the rocks below. They’ve parked on a stony beach, the pebbles an iridescent blue, and the sky appears to be approaching sunset. Jim holds Spock’s hand for a few paces before releasing it, swinging his arms as he walks.

“Where are we going?” Spock murmurs.

He shrugs. “Let’s find out.”

As they walk, Jim trips on a particularly uneven rock, and finds Spock’s arm around his waist; steadying him.

“I-” Spock frowns, and Jim squeezes his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he smiles, and loops arms with Spock.

He raises his eyebrows, lips pressed together as if to trap a smile.

They keep walking until they arrive at the shoreline, the waves ahead of them a shimmering mass of purple, blue and black. Jim sits down suddenly, pulling Spock down with him, and they sit cross-legged by the lake.

All around them, the violet sunset drowns the water and the pebbles in a bright light, causing them to sparkle like a field of stars. They stare at it, transfixed for a moment.

“Sometimes, when I was bored as a child, I used to wonder what stage of the day everyone else was on,” he smiles. “I used to sit in class and look at another person, and think- I bet they’re already home by now.” He shakes his head. “Always daydreaming. It’s a wonder I ever learned anything.”

“Indeed,” Spock says, “Your instruction in the theory of relativity, for one, was woefully inadequate.”

Jim laughs, and rests his head on Spock’s shoulder. “I was getting philosophical. That’s never a good idea, I know.” He tilts his head slightly, and stares up at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, Spock takes his hand, and Jim gives him an amused look. _‘Aren’t Vulcans touch-telepaths?’_ He thinks, and Spock shares the amused look, but says nothing- telepathic or otherwise. Jim squeezes his hand, and senses some of Spock’s emotions, but everything is muted, as if coming to him through a filter. Somehow, he expects the mention of The Vulcans to make him sad. Then, he wonders if he’s just projecting his own expectations onto Spock; thinking a little too loud. He concentrates, but Spock is still carefully silent. It’s almost like tuning into radio static, but his mind is warm, comforting, like the sunrise. Jim straightens up with a start, and points to the sky.

“It’s not raining,” he realises.

Spock blinks at him. “We are no longer on Heirin.”

“I know, I just… Got so used to the rain that I forgot it doesn’t happen every day, on every planet.” He grins, and links fingers with Spock. “I never thought we’d escape the rain,” he laughs. An unhinged sort of laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “But, if we could make it this far, there’s still hope, right?”

Spock examines the black water. “Yes,” he says. “There is.”

*

Curiously, the first thing they run out of is hair bands, not weapons. They come to the conclusion pretty quickly that, as Spock wasn’t wearing one on that first day, it doesn’t self-regenerate like the rest of his outfit. They begin using pieces of string, and, once those run out, Jim figures they can turn to things in the environment, like plant roots/vines. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know the first thing about crafting his own fibres, though he wonders how much he could teach himself from accessing the information available on what remains of the Federation holonets, and the Klingon databases.

Spock even tries cutting his hair a few times, but the attempts are only temporary. It grows back every night, not a strand out of place. Jim runs his fingers through it. “I like it,” he smiles.

Time and again, he wonders what game they could possibly be playing- whose perverse fantasy would require such as excess of blood and corpses- because this is extreme by anyone’s standards, even Klingons’. There is no honour in this. Not for the first time, he wonders if this was a trap; designed for Klingons as much as it was for smugglers: an endurance test to see just how many principals they were willing to break.

The bodies in the ravine have begun to pile up, though he could still count them all, if he tried. How many are there? Fifty? One hundred? How long does it take to become well-versed in murder?

He’s not sure he wants to know how much time has passed, although, he supposes, as he thinks back to his conversation with Spock; it _hasn’t_ passed, in a strange sort of way. If he was still in prison, he’d be out by now. He has no idea what life looks like outside, though he can speculate. The Federation has been dessicated, and the Klingon and Romulans are fighting over the scraps.

“Rise and sh-”

“Shut up!” Thunk. “Just shut up! Shut! Up!”

Although there’s anger behind each blow, this is nothing like that first night; the clumsy, unpractised blows of a killer, nine years out of practise. He has learned how to be _precise._

It’s tiresome to take his frustrations out on Leland when _Leland himself_ is frustrating. He turns it into a game; continues to pursue his theory that somehow, one of these executions will hold the key, as if it’s no different to winning an achievement in an old-fashioned video game- but, if he’s honest, they’ve long passed the evidence threshold to prove that their efforts are futile.

 _Madness is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results._ Still, Spock doesn’t point this out. Perhaps, because, regardless of intent, or excuses, killing Leland is simply a task which needs to be done. He can see it. Though they argue about whose turn it is to do which chore (daily to-do list: check dilithium reserves, chop firewood, decapitate Spock’s ex-boss, do maintenance on the guard rails), any time Jim has even a moment of hesitation, Spock isn’t far behind with an axe. And, really, he can’t blame him. From the few times they’ve tried to hold Leland captive, it’s clear that the man is still dangerous, even without his memories. And, when given access to too many clues, he always pieces them together with frightening ease. And, despite everything, Jim has a nagging feeling that the danger Leland poses isn’t over; it’s simply on-hold, for now.

An arm snakes around his waist from behind; and he jumps out of the way with a yelp. “Jesus!” He clutches the guardrail, and glowers at Spock. “How do you move so silently?”

Spock’s eyes shine with amusement. “After so much time with just the two of us; you should be accustomed to it.”

“But it’s _not_ just us here,” Jim reminds him, and gestures to the freshly acquired cut on his forehead. He sighs, and steps into the proffered embrace. “There’s something obvious I’m missing,” he murmurs. “If I just had all the pieces-”

Spock pulls away suddenly. “Let’s go inside,” he says.

Jim catches his hand. “Thirteen hours until we have to kill Leland,” he says, with a resigned smile. “Again.”


	4. Revelation

Jim spends the next few days hauled up in the server room trying to find something he’s overlooked, but, with the exception of Klingon legend, the records of this planet are practically nonexistent. There are a few scattered reports here and there- things which, under ordinary circumstances, would sound too outlandish to entertain, if he hadn’t experienced them himself.

‘ _Crash-landing results in bloodbath […] sole survivor, Lewis McAllister [...]’_

Jim doesn’t understand it. If the entire crew died on impact, and they experienced the time loop, they should have regenerated. Plus, if his ship was still repairable after a crash-landing, it’s unlikely they actually crashed at all. A controlled landing, perhaps. Jim slumps down, and slams the keyboard in frustration. He’s missing something obvious, some big piece of the puzzle, but he has no idea what.

“Back to plan A,” he murmurs to himself.

“I must admit, James-”

Jim dodges the blood Leland spits at him, and twists the blade. “You didn’t think I had it in me; I know,” he grits. Once again, Leland’s eyes widen in surprise. He claws at the front of Jim’s jacket, but, by now, he’s heard every possible iteration of his last words. There’s nothing Leland could offer which would help them escape this planet. He’s beginning to wonder if there’s a way out at all.

“Jim.”

Footsteps, through the undergrowth. Jim wipes his blade on the grass, and Spock watches him in silence.

“I have something to show you,” he says, finally.

Jim looks up. So far, the cleanest method he’s found to kill Leland is to catch him unawares, usually while he’s shouting “Rise And Shine, Campers!”, but it’s always messier with a knife. They depleted their supply of ammunition for most ranged weapons a while ago. Despite this, the _“Kill Leland Again And Again”_ plan is beginning to lose its novelty and take on a perverse domesticity.

“Okay,” Jim says, slipping the blade into his pocket. They drag the corpse away from the tree with ease. This, after everything else, is becoming a daily chore. They usually dump the bodies in the woods on the West Side of the cabin, but, today, Spock slings Leland over his shoulders, and heads towards the East.

“What’s going on?” Jim asks cheerfully, swinging his arms beside him as he bounces after Spock.

Spock only glances at him, his face stony.

He stops skipping.

The trek takes an eternity, though Jim knows it’s probably distorted by his own anxious anticipation. He sticks close to Spock, despite the swaying body. He wonders how long it’s been, truly. A year, at least. Maybe two. Three? He wonders just how fucked up his life must have been before that this can almost feel normal.

He watches the swinging hand.

It _does_ feel normal.

Jim trips on something, and the force of it sends it flying a short distance. It crashes into a pink boulder, and falls to the ground with a clatter. Jim frowns, and moves over to inspect it. It’s plastiform, dark grey, and warped around the edges. The casing is crinkled, collapsing in on itself, but it looks as if it was once rectangular. A bent metal strip is peeling off the side, and there’s something engraved on it.

A smooth, triangular spaceship.

The Starfleet insignia.

Jim straightens up, a tight feeling in his stomach. He’s positive that neither he nor Spock have ever ventured this far into this part of the forest before, but he can’t think of a time when Leland would have had the chance to get this far- not when he still had a power pack. Unless...

A short distance up ahead, Spock has stopped moving, and watches him.

“Is this what you were going to show me?” Jim asks. If there’s evidence that other people were stranded here before them, then-

“Part of it.” Spock shifts Leland to his other shoulder, and begins moving through the forest again. Jim frowns, and follows.

As they continue walking, the floor of the forest becomes increasingly littered with spent power packs, some in better shape than others. Some are waterlogged and bloated, worn down by years’ worth of rain. All the same size. All of the same make and model.

Eventually, the trees become more sparse, as they approach the mouth of a clearing. Spock stops walking, and sets Leland down by the entrance. After a moment, he straightens up again, watching Jim almost… Coldly.

His stomach does a backflip.

“What’s going on?” He whispers.

“I think you know,” Spock says.

“I don’t-”

Something pale catches Jim’s eye in the undergrowth. He starts. It’s curved, and flesh coloured. Or, rather, it was _once_ flesh coloured. Now it’s a pale, washed out grey.

A single, rounded ear.

His breath stutters. He glances to Leland’s body, but, somehow, the shapes don’t seem to match up. He raises a hand to his own ear, and gently traces the outer shell. Somehow, it matches. “What…?” He breathes. He recalls a flash of something. A memory of a memory.

Like a computer rebooted too many times.

He takes a halting step forwards, and Spock doesn’t follow.

The floor of the clearing is embedded with tiny scraps of fabric. Dark, black denim. Flannel. A red, criss-cross pattern.

Jim presses forwards, ignoring the similarities to his own outfit. There are articles of clothing scattered here and there- a shoelace, a button hidden under a tree branch- even the occasional body-part. A hand. A finger.

What was it Leland had said, the first time they met?

“ _A phaser blast at this range… That’s not something you come back from.”_

The things he find become more and more complete- a whole shoe, an entire plaid jacket. Two jackets, laid out next to each other; one more discoloured than the first.

He stumbles forwards, his breathing heavy. There’s buzzing up ahead. Shapes. _A swarm._ Heirin doesn’t have flies, not exactly. These are more like tiny, carnivorous humming birds, but their function is the same.

 _Like vultures,_ he thinks.

The clearing is littered with empty power packs, and a few- _unusual_ \- weapons. The handle of a knife blade. A few, broken copies of the penknife he has in his pocket. The splintered remains of a chair.

He averts his eyes from the dark pink creatures, and tries not to look at what they’re feeding on.

The sound becomes unbearable.

He stops moving.

The clearing is filled with corpses. He doesn’t get any nearer; this is close enough. Blonde hair. Startled expressions. Various states of decay. And, these are just the bodies which survived. He wonders how many were disintegrated, or lost in space, or-

A hand touches his shoulder. He jumps back from it with a strangled sound. Spock is stands behind him, his face carefully neutral.

 _Ask him how I knew,_ Leland had said.

Jim balls his hands into fists, shuddering. “You tried to kill me,” he says; voice small.

Spock surveys the valley. “Look around you, James. We did more than _‘try.’”_

Jim staggers backwards and leans against a tree as he wills down the nausea. All the while, Spock watches him without betraying emotion, every bit the flawlessly logical Section-31 agent- and _Vulcan_ \- he was trained to be.

“Why?” Jim whispers. He digs his nails into the tree, green bark flaking off in chunks.

“It was always the plan to kill you.”

Jim swallows, dryly. “That first night…” He shivers, “That’s why you told me to run.”

“Yes.” A bird cries in the distance; a soulful lament. Spock inclines his head. “Were circumstances different, my advice would remain the same.”

“But; instead, I’m stuck with you,” Jim says. He balls his fists, and wills him, silently, to disagree.

Spock widens his stance, and folds his arms behind his back. “Yes.”

Jim’s breath catches in his throat. He gives a jerky nod. “So that’s what he meant,” he whispers. “That’s how Leland knew how to shut the outpost down; he watched me do it. Over and over again. Before-” he breathes. “Before he killed me.”

Spock gives him the slightest nod, and Jim shakes. “You never told me you’d gone through with it! You never told me that you had actually-” he swallows. “What made you change your mind?”

“You.”

Hope flares in his chest. “Why?” He croaks. “Because I kept coming back? Because I was- kind to you?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Because, between you and Leland, you are the person most likely to discover a way out of here.”

It’s a punch to the gut. He trembles, reaches for his pocket, and stops.

He almost laughs.

“You know, I really thought Leland was wrong about you.” His voice cracks. “That you weren’t the unfeeling, cold-blooded killer he groomed you to be.” There’s a beat. “I guess I was wrong.”

If there’s a flash of defiance in Spock’s eyes, it vanishes quickly. They regard each other for three heartbeats, and then- though it’s late, far too late, to take his advice- he begins to run.

He continues until the rain begins, and he thinks back to that first day. His heart thuds. _Not the first day._ Just the first day he _remembers_. The signs were all there, he just never wanted to see them. He thinks of that first, solitary scrap of torn, charred plaid. Flannel, scattered indiscriminately throughout the clearing. The same shirt, over and over and over.

A drop of rain falls onto his exposed skin, and he continues running, even as he’s pelted by it. They hit as hard as hailstones, falling faster now that he’s out of the densest parts of the forest. He runs without direction, the night-time smothering everything, and trips on roots, a fallen branch. Something twisted, bent out of shape.

He runs until he can’t take it anymore, chest burning, and slumps against a tree.

There’s a crackle overhead, shapes arching through the branches. A flash of light, illuminating purple leaves. He tilts his head back, the water soaking his face and chin, and slides, helplessly, to the ground. His vision blurs, and he takes a shuddery breath, willing down nausea. He hugs his knees to his chest, and allows the tears to fall; thick and heavy enough to compete with the downpour. He’s heard poems claim that tears get lost in heavy rain, but their composers have clearly never cried in a storm before. He can easily distinguish between the cold, frozen pellets of rain which strike him, and his own tears, comparatively warm. The only spot of warmth in this whole forest.

The rain which strikes his face is frozen, unrelenting, each drop piercing, and his own tears are, by comparison, almost pleasantly warm. They slide down his face, unusually comforting, and their frequency begins to lessen. He hugs his knees, growing still, and gradually colder.

Thunder rumbles overhead, twice. What was that old method for finding out how close a storm was? _One Mississippi, two-_

That’s when the lightning hits him.

*

Spock runs through the forest, the footprints hard to trace now. There’s a strip of plaid snagged on a branch up ahead, and he rushes forwards, slipping on the wet soil, quickly becoming mud.

“Jim,” he croaks, stumbling once more.

“Stay away!” A voice warbles, high and shrill. Spock turns, and sees Jim cowering beneath a tree, shaking. The right side of his face is drenched in blood. He holds a hand over the place where his ear used to be, and gives a wet sob.

“Jim-”

“No.” Jim wields the penknife with a hand trembling too much to do any harm, but Spock doesn’t get any closer. He surveys the scene for a moment, his face set into a thin smile.

“You will not harm me.”

A shaky exhale. “What makes you so sure?”

The rain falls harder.

“That is your non-dominant hand,” he says, at last.

A gulp, which could be aborted laughter. “Do you think this is fucking funny?” He hisses.

“No.” Spock raises an eyebrow, and approaches, crouching beside him beneath the tree. It offers rudimentary shelter, and they’re already soaked through. Jim strikes at him clumsily, and Spock catches his wrist, twists, and disarms him with ease.

Spock settles against the tree beside him. Jim’s body heat radiates off him, and Spock resists the urge to lean into him. Jim hangs his head, weak from blood loss, and glowers up at him.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” He whispers.

“Because he can’t,” booms a voice behind them. Leland steps into view, and watches Spock with a predatory smile.

“It could be informative to see the long-term results of keeping him alive,” Spock argues, carefully dispassionate.

Leland clicks his tongue impatiently, and nods to his phaser. “Get on with it.”

Spock blinks, and Jim slumps against the tree, sniffling softly. Spock makes no attempt to grasp the phaser, and looks up at Leland blankly.

Leland snorts, and retrieves his own phaser. “I told you.” He turns to Jim, almost apologetically, and fires.

Spock flinches as Jim disintegrates next to him, and breathes unsteadily. There’s a distinct odor in the air, like ozone.

Leland winds the setting down. “Let’s be clear, Spock. If you let him escape again, I’ll kill you first.” He grins, nastily, and turns the phaser on him. “But then, you’d never remember your lesson.”

There’s a fizz, and the phaser charge hits him in the shoulder. Spock jolts. He grits his teeth as the burning encompasses his entire arm, spreading like ice. Leland crouches down, and places a hand under his chin.

“It goes higher without being lethal.”

He stares at him.

“It’s painful, though,” Leland continues. He laughs, and strikes him across the face. “Though, I suppose, you don’t feel pain, do you?”

Spock exhales, and watches his hand. “Leland-”

“Ah!” Leland places his fingers to his lips, and raises an eyebrow.

He swallows. “No,” he says. “I don’t feel pain.”

Leland pats his cheek, and stands. “Then sit still.” He levels the phaser at him again. Spock clutches his injured arm with one hand. He turns away slightly, and wet hair falls over his face., clinging to him. He makes no move to swipe it away.

“See, what you’ve got to understand, Spock, is that we’re not like you. Humans are impatient.”

“Humans are impatient,” Spock repeats, as Leland fires again. It catches Spock in the leg, and he squeezes his eyes shut, leaning against the tree.

“He wouldn’t wait for you.”

“He wouldn’t…” Spock breathes raggedly.

“Say it.”

He gasps desperately. “He wouldn’t wait for me.”

“He’d dispose of you in an instant.” Leland’s voice is firm. “You’re better off with me.”

Spock grits his teeth, and breathes through his nose. _There is no pain,_ he thinks.

“Spock,” Leland says, his voice sing-song.

He looks up at him through half-closed eyes. “He wouldn’t wait for me,” he manages. His eyes widen as he realises he’s got the mantra wrong, and the phaser powers up again.

“I’m better off with-”

A burning warmth crashes over him, and he passes out from the pain.

_Jim._

Jim groans, curiously warm, yet cold at the same time. He shivers, but he’s on fire.

“Sphh?” He manages. His tongue tastes like ash.

 _Jim_ , the voice says again, all around him. He opens his eyes, but everything is dark, fuzzy, too bright. A tree. Moonlight. Something dark, pressed against him. A coat. There’s a strange sort of pressure on his forehead. He turns his head, but it follows him.

“Hnn,” he mumbles.

Arms lift him into the air, and he shudders violently.

 _Be still._ The pressure on his forehead increases slightly, and his eyes flutter closed.

When he next comes round, he feels noticeably warmer. He opens his eyes, just a fraction. He’s lying on his side, on a makeshift platform of pillows, and something flickers in front of him. He reaches an arm towards it. It’s pretty. He can almost touch it-

A hand joins his own, and gently guides it away.

“That is a fire,” Spock murmurs.

Jim stirs, and rolls onto his back. His clothes are hanging on the mantel above the fireplace, and he’s aware, distantly, that a blanket has been thrown over him. He grunts, and passes back out.

The next morning, he wakes in his clothes once again, yesterday’s clothes still drying on the mantelpiece. He wonders is the duplicate items will simply disappear when they escape Heirin.

_Escape._

He sits bolt upright, as everything hits him with one, horrible jolt. _The lightning. The memories. Spock._

Spock sits across from him, cross-legged, as if he fell asleep watching over him. Keeping sentinel. Jim realises he was meditating- or, at least, attempting to. He studies his face for a moment- so still, he could almost be sleeping. He should just leave. Get in the shuttle, and keep going. But, he knows where that would get him. Right back where he started; again and again and again.

Spock’s face twitches, and he stirs. He opens his eyes, with a low, drawn out hum. “James,” he rumbles, and looks sharply away. “If you will still permit me to call you that.”

Jim blinks, and then remembers- _My friends call me Jim._ Spoken a lifetime ago. _Several_ lifetimes, apparently. “Right.” He exhales. “I guess we’ll find out.” He pushes the blanket off, and tries to keep his voice light. “Were you meditating?”

“Attempting to.” His face flickers. “How do you feel?”

“Alive,” he says, warily. “What… Happened?”

Spock inhales. “When you were struck by lightning, I initiated a meld, to save your life.”

“That’s why I could see your memories,” Jim breathes.

Spock shifts uncomfortably. “I was not aware I was projecting them. Without the ability to meditate, I have found my control to be… Lacking.”

Jim nods, and rises. “Then I’ll have to avoid getting hit again,” he says. “At least we’re on a planet where lightning always strikes the same place twice.” He walks over to the dining table and its three chairs, and thinks about the broken chair he’d found in the forest. “It’s almost funny,” he snorts, softly. “It’s like discovering that your date has been taking you to all the places their ex took them, only-” He turns. “Discovering that he once took you to a shooting range, and _I_ was the target practise.”

Spock stands. “Leland is _not_ my ‘ _ex’_.”

“I-” Jim places a hand on the back of the chair. He can almost feel it splintering. “You were really going to let me waste my time going over every single experiment you’d already done?”

“On the contrary; your approach to the problem was different to Leland’s, and my own. It proved insightful, in some ways.”

“Sure. Let’s face it, if you’d learned anything from ‘observing’ me, you wouldn’t have showed me that clearing.”

Spock hesitates. “That was not the reason. I found it… unexpectedly difficult to inform you.”

Jim looks away, and takes a steadying breath. His hand clenches on the back of the chair. “You said...’ _’we’_ did a lot more than try.’ But- I saw- in the meld…” His shoulders tense. “I just need to know-”

“If I ever tried to kill you?” Spock’s lip twitches. “No. But I was there, Jim. Every single time. Does that not make me complicit?”

The tension leaves his shoulders, and he lets out a long breath. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “But- it doesn’t mean you’re responsible.”

Spock tilts his head, as if in contemplation. Then, his eyes widen.

“Leland,” he says. When Jim attempts to move, he places a hand on his arm. “Allow me,” he says, with a strange intensity. Then, he retrieves an axe from the wall, and marches out onto the Veranda.

Jim watches him leave, with a grim smile. “Right.” He whispers. “Leland.”


	5. Resolution

“Tell me everything you learned when my memory kept getting wiped,” Jim says.

“There is not much to tell. Leland and I attempted everything you and I have-” seeing Jim’s face, he pauses. “It was not a waste of time. Failure on the first attempt does not preclude the possibility of success on the second.”

The news that he was murdered multiple times hasn’t sparked any grand realisation as of yet. Mostly, it’s just made him angry, but he tries not to show it. Despite the recent realisation that their dilithium crystals have begun to drain, noticeably- confirming that they _will_ run out, eventually- they sit side by side in a tense silence as the shuttle whizzes through space. Jim taps his fingers on his side of the dashboard, and turns to Spock.

“Stop here; I want to try something.”

They land on the same planet as their first outing; but on a different beach, with actual sand.

“For variety’s sake,” Jim says, with a slight smile.

“Variety,” Spock says, dryly, as they approach the shoreline. “I must admit; I thought you brought me here to kill me.”

“You- _what?!”_ Jim wheels on him. “And you just- got in the shuttle?”

Spock tilts his head. “At the time, the reaction did not seem disproportionate.”

“Right.” Jim sits down on the sand, and looks up at him. “And now that you’re about to be- ah- executed?” He squints as he leans back, temporarily blinded by the iridescent sand.

Spock says nothing, and sits on the sand, a short distance from him. A strong breeze picks at strands of his hair, and Jim sighs.

After a moment, the sun begins to descend, and Jim looks up. “This is what I like about space travel. Even the sunset isn’t a fixed phenomenon. Theoretically- if you wanted to- you could manipulate it. Park your spaceship in a different position on the planet’s surface, so you could view it as many times as you liked. It’s not always spontaneous. But, if you’re really lucky, you get to experience _this,_ with someone you-” he stops.

“What?” Spock asks, quietly.

“Care about,” Jim finishes, softly. He clears his throat. “I mean, how many other people do you think have got to witness this _exact_ view?”

Spock considers for a moment. “The Klingons,” he says, firmly.

Jim laughs. “Spock, I-”

A twinkle catches his eye.

The purple sunset dissolves into the vast tapestry of night, and, as the sand twinkles out, the sky itself becomes a glittering canvas. At the last moment, Jim turns to him, as the last embers of sunlight illuminate his hair.

“So, what do you want to do?” Jim whispers. “Do you want to chase the sunset? Have another go?”

Spock rests his head against his shoulder, and almost smiles.

As the days pass- or, don’t pass- they continue their attempts to escape. Sometimes, it looks like they might be getting somewhere- as far as they can while still avoiding Klingon space- but, at some point every morning, no matter how far they go, the clock resets. Heirin pulls them backwards like an elastic band, and they wake up back on the planet.

“How far did we make it this time?”

“Five point nine light years further than our last attempt.”

Jim grits his teeth. “Then we should try going in that direction. Maybe we’re onto something.”

*

For the most part, the Iclixi have remained neutral in the Klingon-Romulan-Federation conflict, and, as a result, not much is known about them. Still, one thing is clear: they don’t like visitors.

“So, that’s why Leland asked me about base ten,” Jim says, breathless, as an asteroid explodes behind them. Escaping death has lost its excitement in some ways, but fleeing missiles- that’s fairly new.

Spock nods stiffly, his eyes locked on the controls, and Jim begins to use his own console to hack into the Iclixian database.

“Base six,” Jim murmurs, as he surveys the structure of the numbers on his console. “If it’s true that that these guys have four arms, then they must only have two digits on each hand.”

Spock runs a hand through his hair. “Jim-”

“I know.” Jim begins entering numbers frantically, and looks up. “What happened the first time you were here-?” The shuttle veers to the left.

Spock’s eyes dart to him, then back to the viewscreen.

“- Right.” Jim types faster. “Well, if I’m right, this should make us blind to their sensors.” And, if he’s wrong, they’ll find themselves back on Heirin.

With no memory of this.

He slams a button down at the same moment Spock pulls the shuttle into a nosedive. Outside the back window, the two missiles continue on a straight path, directly ahead. Jim waits with baited breath, but no more missiles are deployed.

He collapses back in his chair with an exhausted whoop.

They make their way through the rest of the Iclixi system without further disturbance, and Jim’s eyelids begin to droop.

“How long have we been awake?” He yawns.

“Twenty seven hours and… thirteen minutes,” Spock replies.

Jim pats him on the shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep first?”

“Negative. Vulcans-”

“Require less sleep than humans, I know.” Jim rises, and curls up at the back of the shuttle, with a tired smile. _This time,_ he thinks, as he drifts off, _we might actually make it._

Jim rolls over, and snuggles into something soft. He feels well-rested.

Which only means one thing.

His eyes snap open, and he sits bolt upright. “Spock.”

He rushes to the main bedroom, and throws the door open. The room is much more orderly than it was before. Spock opens his eyes, and sits up suddenly.

“Jim?” He reaches for him, frowning. “I did not fall asleep-”

“I know,” Jim murmurs, “But what happened? What’s the last thing you remember?” He takes hold of Spock’s hands, and kneels on the edge of the bed, checking him over- although, of course; there isn’t a scratch on him.

“I… blinked,” Spock realises.

Jim slumps.

They can’t take shifts blinking.

*

As they begin to search for alternate routes through Klingon space, Jim finds something which he’d previously overlooked.

Boreth.

‘ _There’s a planet in the Klingon empire called ‘Boreth’ which is the only place in the known universe to contain a mineral known as ‘poH qut’. Translated to Standard, it means ‘time crystal’.’_ Jim had never heard of them before, but the more he reads, the more familiar it sounds. For the most part, research on them is scarce, but there are isolated reports- mostly anecdotal- of users becoming trapped in time loops, triggered either intentionally or accidentally. In both instances, though, the loop is triggered by the spilling of innocent blood.

Jim cross-references it with any references to poH qut in the Klingon databases, only to come up short: the Klingons abandoned all experiments with time crystals centuries ago, and the ones which remain on Boreth are closely guarded by an order of monks. There _is_ something, though. Rumours that one of the experiments resulted in a time crystal being hidden at the very core of a planet, before

“...But, even if there _is_ a time crystal at the heart of this planet, that doesn’t help us,” Jim muses. “We don’t have the equipment to locate it or dig it up.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, and says nothing.

Jim claps him on the shoulder. “We’ll find a way out.”

*

Jim’s desperation only increases as things begin to break around the stronghold. For the moment, it’s mostly small, minor electrical errors- a wire needs reattaching on an upper wall, one of the consoles in the server room stops working, but there are plenty of backups- for now.

They run into problems whenever something needs replacing. They salvage a couple of items from the basement, but the only replacement bulb they can find for the downstairs bathroom emits a bright, irradiated green. Spock begins to exclusively use the upstairs bathroom, explaining that such unrelenting green is every bit as unpalatable to Vulcan retinas as red would be to humans.

Seeing as the shuttle has never been blown up before, the possibility limits the risks they can take, and the experiment is understandably one which they are reluctant to proceed with. If the shuttle doesn’t regenerate, they’ll be even more stuck than before, without a means of escape. Just as Lewis McAllister should have been. The report implies that McAllister simply omitted the miraculous tale of how his dead crew and ship were resurrected each morning before his miraculous escape… But, given the state that the shuttle and the stronghold are currently in, he doubts that was the case. He sighs, and goes over the information that they have once again, from day one to now.

“I suspect,” Spock says, quietly, “The only reason Leland would have needed to learn the hacking procedure himself was if he was planning to kill me.”

Jim holds his hand out, and, tentatively, Spock takes it.

“Alright, new plan,” Jim says, as he steps out of the forest, his shirt spattered with blood. “We do what we came here to do.”

Spock blinks at him, possibly confused by the blood stains.

“I mean: I take the outpost down, then we travel out to meet whoever Section-31 is sending. I mean, what have we got to lose? If we get it wrong, won’t we just wake back up here again?”

“With no memory of this,” Spock points out.

Jim sighs. “I’ve thought of that. And- has it ever occurred to you that we

Spock shakes his head. “The first day I remember, the stronghold was as it was the day before. And, we can tell

“If we can work out some sort of back-up-plan, a way to send a message to ourselves in case our memories get erased again…” Jim glances at the shuttle, and heads towards the server room.

*

As they fly through space, Jim turns to Spock with a nervous smile.

“So. Who’s coming to meet us?”

A shadow flickers across Spock’s face. “Agent Georgiou.”

“Georgiou?” Jim frowns. _“Phillipa_ Georgiou? Wasn’t she a Starfleet Captain? I thought she was killed in _the battle at the binary stars?”_

Spock’s eyes flash. “She is not who she appears to be,” he says. “Whatever you think; you cannot trust her.” As usual, his expression is unreadable.

The shuttle bleeps, as an unseen ship hails them. It pulls into view up ahead

There’s a strange, unfamiliar weapon on the top of the ship, jutting out at the font. It’s twice as long as the hull of the shuttle, and looks as if it’s been compacted down. The front of it is coiled, like some sort of drill-bit. Before Jim can question it further, Spock answers the hail- audio only.

“Agent Georgiou,” he murmurs.

“Spock. I almost shot you out of the sky,” the voice purrs. “You’re early. A _day_ early.”

Spock straightens. “And yet, our mission is complete.”

“Hm.” There’s a bleep as she, presumably, verifies that claim. “You work fast.”

Spock exchanges a look with Jim. “Indeed.”

There’s a pause.

“Where’s Leland?” Her voice acquires a dangerous edge.

“He is- on board.”

“Hm. Unconscious, presumably; otherwise he would have answered me himself.”

“We had a- trying day,” Spock says, haltingly.

Jim’s heart hammers in his chest, and his eyes dart over to Spock.

“Scan us,” Spock says.

“Oh, I did. There are two life-signs on your ship. One human, one half-Vulcan. I have no guarantee that Leland is one of them.”

There’s a pause.

“Unless you turn on your vidscreen, of course.”

“It was damaged in our escape with The Klingons.”

“How convenient. I assume _Leland_ was injured, as well?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat.

“How do I know that _the boy_ isn’t on board with you?”

“Because we stuck to the plan,” Spock says.

Jim breathes shallowly, and twists his hands together in his lap.

Georgiou’s laugh is distorted. “Plans change. Still, I do not intend to deviate from mine. I was only instructed to meet you _and_ Leland.”

“You were never fond of Leland.”

“That’s true. In many ways, you’ve done me a favour.”

“Spock-” Jim whispers, as the computer readout flashes up red.

“You can do me another favour.”

“She’s locked on weapons-”

The proximity alert bleeps. Spock’s hands find the controls the same time Jim’s do, and they slam the ship into a wild dive. A second later, something glances off the side of the ship, and they’re thrown sideways. Spock cries out. Jim crashes head first into the wall, and his vision goes double.

“Spock…” Jim says, as his eyes flutter shut.

*

The hum of an engine. Jim’s head throbs.

He sits up with a groan. The shuttle is adrift, and Spock is slouched over the controls, clutching his side and breathing heavily.

“Spock-”

He crawls over to him, and pulls himself into the seat next to him. He touches Spock’s shoulder, and his eyelids flutter. He groans.

“Come on, Spock.” He pulls Spock’s hand away, and it’s green with blood. Cursing, he pulls his jacket off, and winds it round his torso, but it soaks through quickly. Jim’s eyes widen.

If he remembers correctly, Vulcan hearts are further down than humans’.

Heart pounding, he runs to the back of the shuttle, and tears the medkit open. Though the bandages and the dermal regenerator have long since been depleted, he knows that he’s seen-

 _A hypospray._ He grabs it. With one last glance back at Spock, he fills it with a cartridge of anaesthetic. Enough to knock himself out, he hopes. He takes a deep breath. He sits down heavily, places it against his neck, and discharges it with a hiss.


	6. Show And Tell

A muffled voice. “Jim?”

Footsteps.

The bedroom door is thrown open, and a mass of dark hair hurtles toward him. Jim barely has enough time to sit up before Spock lands on him heavily, knocking him back onto the mattress. Jim braces himself against the trembling torso, and wraps his arms around him.

“Whoa- Spock!” He laughs, and pushes himself upright again. “It’s alright. I’m alright.” He pulls back slightly, and runs his hand down Spock’s side, but, of course, the wound from yesterday has completely vanished. He smiles. _“You’re_ alright. We’re alright.” Strong arms embrace him, pulling him closer, and he sinks into them. “You steered us out of danger,” he murmurs against his shoulder.

“I thought you-”

“I know. When I woke up, you were injured. I didn’t think you were going to make it, so I- I found enough anaesthetic to knock myself out.” He pauses. “It might have killed me, given enough time- I know non-replicated medicines don’t keep that well, but-”

“Jim.” Spock presses his forehead against his, and Jim keeps talking, as if he can explain it to himself somehow.

“- I guess it worked, because-”

Spock’s lips capture his, and he blinks. He tilts his head, and makes a surprised sound as he returns the kiss. Spock’s movements are slow, well-practised, almost perfectly timed. Jim’s breath catches, and he pulls away.

“Oh. Okay,” he says, breathlessly. “That’s not the first time we’ve-? Uh? Is it-?”

“No,” Spock murmurs. His eyes glimmer with something, and he watches Jim. Waiting.

Jim places his hands against his hips. “Can we-?”

“Yes,” Spock breathes. They kiss again, and Spock’s hands travel up Jim’s spine, and settle, finally, at the nape of his neck. Jim presses against him lightly, learning the contours of his body, as Spock holds his with a strange familiarity. The tension drops from his shoulders, and he gives in- this, if anything, is the final proof of the prison they find themselves in, not that any was needed. Spock cradles him with expert hands, and knows every favourite spot better than Jim knows them himself. Still, he feels almost as if he’s kissing a stranger, and pulls away before he makes a fool of himself.

“You’re at a- slight advantage, Spock.”

Spock looks at him.

He huffs. “Don’t tell me you _knew_ I was going to say that.”

A raised eyebrow. “I did not say a word.”

“Still...” Jim glances down, and grabs Spock’s right hand, raising it to his lips. “You’re showing me up.” He kisses the palm, twice.

“There is no need to be embarrassed, Jim.” His eyes twinkle, teasingly.

“You smug bastard.” Jim peppers the inside of his hand with soft kisses, and nips at the skin intermittently, as he traverses towards the thumb with gentle lips. “There must be _something_ you’re not expecting.”

“Mm.”

“I’ve heard that Vulcan hands are very sensitive,” Jim comments.

“They are,” Spock says, neutrally.

“Hm. An erogenous zone, perhaps?”

Spock raises an eyebrow cryptically.

Jim splays his hand and begins to kiss between the webs of his fingers, darting his tongue out as he peers up at Spock, gauging his reaction. Spock locks eyes with him, and remains determinedly impassive.

Jim continues his ministrations, and caresses Spock’s other hand as he goes. Gradually, he kisses the pad of each finger, and rubs small circles into the palm of his hand.

Spock watches him appraisingly.

“Well?” He murmurs.

“It was certainly- nice,” Spock purrs. “But it was not- _surprising.”_

Jim narrows his eyes, and pins him to the bed with a chuckle.

The interior of the shuttle is more wrecked than the outside, though the outer armour is dented slightly. They’ve taken slight damage to their shield generators. Jim ventures inside.

The floor around the pilot’s seat is stained a deep green, as is a corner of exposed panelling towards the driver’s right-side. It’s evident that this was the item responsible for Spock’s injuries, and it appears to have been forced open by a minor explosion from within the panel itself. He tears the shard of panelling free so it won’t pose a problem in the future. Of course, it will never have the chance to do that if they can’t get it off the ground again.

He moves to the back of the shuttle, and places the fallen hypospray back in the medkit. Then, he opens the access panel to the engine.

The warp coil is out of alignment, but, when he goes to reposition it, it snaps in two. He stares at it for a moment, then retrieves the two halves, and moves to the outside of the shuttle, where Spock is puzzling over the broken shield generator.

“I was going to suggest we give it another couple of runs until we finally got it right, but it’s pointless.” Jim drops the broken warp coil with a reverberating clang. “The ship won’t repair itself. It’s the same as the weapons.” He nods to the empty holster which is built-into the side of Spock’s suit, and slumps against the side of the ship.

“The warp coil can be repaired,” Spock says, softly, as he sits down beside him.

Jim shakes his head. “Maybe. But how many times can we repair the ship, really, when we have to salvage replacements?” He nods towards the stronghold with the beginnings of a smirk. “You weren’t exactly thrilled by the new bulb I found for the bathroom.”

Spock wrinkles his nose. “Perhaps not. But not everything must be done to my taste.” He rests his head on Jim’s shoulder, and the two of them sit in silence for a moment as a cool breeze brushes over them.

“Spock,” Jim says, in a pinched voice.

“Yes, Jim?”

He shifts a little, and Spock looks up.

“I’ve been thinking; and I know you will have noticed it too- there’s a strange pattern to the things which keep regenerating. We haven’t run out of food rations- not that we need to eat them- and the same fruit appears on the trees every day. Leland and I kept returning when we got killed, only unable to retain any memories.”

“Yes,” Spock says, patiently.

“Well, what makes the weapons any different? Or the ship, for that matter? The stronghold?”

Spock considers for a moment. “They are not made of organic matter.”

Jim nods. “Perhaps.” He pulls himself to his feet, and offers a hand to Spock. “Or, perhaps, the planet only regenerates things which will prolong our suffering.” He watches the shield generator with a glum smile.

“If the intention was solely to make us suffer, would it not be more effective to prevent food from regenerating, to prolong our starvation?”

Jim purses his lips. “Perhaps. But there are other ways to starve. Entertainment. Companionship.”

“Indeed. Which is why I find it unusual that the planet would allow us to exist here, _together_ , in perpetuity.” Jim’s eyes glimmer hopefully, and Spock looks away. “Even Vulcans experience loneliness,” he justifies.

“I never suggested they couldn’t,” Jim says softly, and fixes his gaze on him. Spock keeps his own trained carefully on the ground.

Jim digs into the shield generator with his bare hands. “What if it’s not meant to _feel_ like a trap? Not at first. After all,” his voice is almost hoarse, “Self-replenishing food? For many people, that’s paradise. But, what happened when the battery packs for the phasers ran out?”

“We found other ways to deal with Leland,” Spock says, with just a hint of humour.

“Right. But, one day… Theoretically, if we’re here long enough…” He struggles with the shield generator with a grunt. “Axes will blunt. Knives will wear down. We have so many, but those _will_ run out eventually.”

Spock lifts his hand out of the way gently. “That could take centuries.”

“Right.” Jim sighs. “Just enough time to figure out a way out of here.”

“Spock, what was the full extent of Leland’s plan?” Jim asks, as they lounge beside each other on the double bed. Outside, the storm rages, but Jim is almost used to it now. Seeing the expression on Spock’s face, he waves a hand at the ceiling. “I don’t mean killing me, but the rest of it- taking down the outpost, the attack on Kronos- how were they going to do it? It could be important, once we get out of here.”

Spock considers. “Not much was concealed from you. We were to take down the outpost, at which point, we would be joined by a strike team from Section-31, either here, or in space.”

“ _One_ strike team?” Jim murmurs. He thinks of the crates and crates of power packs, and the strange, mismatched weapon on the front of Georgiou’s ship. Retractable, circular.

Almost like a drill.

He sits up. “They’re going to use the technology they recovered from _The Nerada_ to destroy Kronos,” he realises. “I didn’t see it before- how a band of people so small could hope to launch an attack alone, but it makes perfect sense.” He shakes his head. “What are they thinking? Aren’t two destroyed planets enough?”

Spock closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Spock,” Jim murmurs, touching his arm. He sighs. “It would be a lot easier to work out what’s going on if we knew what was on that ship.”

He draws his knees to his chest, and listens to the rhythmic beat of rain against the windows.

Spock stirs next to him. “Ten thousand cc’s of red matter,” he murmurs.

“What?”

His eyes flutter open. _“The Enterprise_ was there, Jim,” he whispers. “When Vulcan was destroyed. The Nerada took Captain Pike prisoner, and destroyed every other starship in the system. At first, we could not work out why they spared us, but Nero… _Knew_ me.”

Jim frowns. “Knew you? I don’t-”

“The weapons on The Nerada were from the future. But, it was a future version of myself who created the singularity which allowed them to travel through time. And…” He frowns. “He provided the red matter which is necessary to destroy a planet.”

Jim rests his head on his knees and stares at Spock. Given their current situation, the idea of actual, tangible time-travel isn’t so far-fetched, but he stares at him anyway.

“In the other universe, Romulus was destroyed when its sun went Nova, and The Nerada was brought through the singularity it created.”

“Another universe,” Jim whispers.

Spock nods. “Another me… Whom Nero was determined to get revenge on; for the destruction of his homeworld.”

Jim frowns. “But- he didn’t do it deliberately.”

A jerky nod. “He told me it was an accident. Nevertheless…” He rakes a hand through his hair. “When _The Enterprise_ attempted to defend Earth, both were destroyed, and I was imprisoned on The Nerada for three weeks.”

“With Pike,” Jim breathes.

Spock nods. “And my counterpart.” His hand shakes. “When I arrived, he had already suffered extensive injuries. I melded with him many times in an attempt to save his life, but-” his voice cracks, and Jim places a hand on his shoulder. Spock covers his hand with his own, and continues.

“He perished after three days. He and Pike attempted to protect me, but, once they were gone, Nero was once again free to take his frustrations out on me.” He sweeps his long hair back over his shoulder.

On the back of his neck is the beginning of a scar. It continues under his shirt, and Spock’s fingers fall still against the neckline. He peers at Jim.

A question.

Jim nods, and Spock removes his shirt with trembling fingers. His back is lined with a criss-cross of scars. A long, jagged line runs up his back, and dips down again, like a diagonal “v”. It branches off into smaller lines, some more faded than others, and Jim reaches a hand out tentatively.

“Can I…?”

Spock nods, and Jim touches the mark gently. Spock tenses.

“Does it hurt?” He whispers.

He searches the wall, a vague, faraway look in his eyes. “It did.”

Gently, Jim traces his hand up Spock’s back, and slides closer to him, placing a leg on either side of his waist. He rests his chin on Spock’s shoulder, and brushes his cheek with his.

“It’s my fault, Jim. The destruction of my home, and yours.”

Jim shakes his head. “No. You only think that because you’ve been told that. You-” He softens his voice. “Nero is responsible for his own actions.”

Spock swallows.

“Leland was wrong- more to the point, Leland is unhinged. He may blame you for the destruction of earth, but-” he squeezes his hand. “I don’t.”

“But, a version of me was responsible for bringing the Narada back in time-”

“It’s _not_ your fault.” He traces the scar on Spock’s neck. “No matter what he told you,” he whispers. “What happened to Romulus was a tragic accident, but, what happened to us- to our homes- was deliberate. You weren’t responsible for that.” He kisses his cheek. “You weren’t responsible for any of it.”

Spock breathes shallowly.

Jim bends gently, and places a kiss to the scar on his neck. Spock shivers, and Jim moves gradually lower. He follows the line of scarring down his back, kissing at individual vertebrae as he goes, and Spock trembles.

He rumbles. “Jim.”

“Mm? Oh,” Jim smiles, slyly, against his skin. “So, that surprised you, huh? I guess you’ve never shown me your scars before.”

Spock shakes his head. Jim presses his forehead against his back with a laugh, and projects all the love he feels. His breath hitches, and Jim nuzzles against him. “I promise you, Spock, you’re going to get out of here. You deserve to survive. You deserve to _live.”_

He kisses his neck again, and Spock grasps his hands, holding them against his chest and ruminating. Jim sits up slightly.

“Spock. It’s okay. You didn’t kill anyone... You’re no murderer.”

He breaks contact with Spock, and retrieves his penknife from the bedside table. “The last time I saw my brother alive, he gave me this. _‘Just in case.’_ ” His lip quivers, and he looks away, to the drops of rain running down the window. “We were on Tarsus IV,” he whispers. “He tried to steal food for us, on the night…” He sets the knife back down, and a tremor runs through his hands. “On the night that the colonists were killed.”

Spock watches him.

“He told me to wait for him, and I did. But I wasn’t the only person who’d found that hiding spot- the office on the ground floor of the embassy. A boy found me. He wasn’t much older than me, but at the time, he seemed so… _Threatening.”_ He taps his fingers against his knee. “He wanted me to leave, and I- I didn’t know what to do. Sam had told me to wait for him, so I…” He motions with his hand, and falls silent. He feels Spock’s gaze, boring into him.

“That was the first person I killed. Not Kodos. Not one of his personal guards, but a scared boy who was just looking for his next meal. Just like me. And…” He looks at the knife. “My brother.” He takes a shaky breath. “They found Sam after the riots at the warehouse, after the fires and the smoke had cleared. He and a number of protestors had been tied up by a member of the guard detail. With rope. If he’d had a knife-”

“Jim.”

“I know; I shouldn’t blame myself. But, I kept that knife. For years, every time I looked at it…”

Spock nods. “Survivor’s guilt is a powerful thing.”

Jim settles against him. “I suppose we know that better than most.”

“I think Sam wanted me to be brave. Like him.

“He gave his life for yours. It was a gift.”

“That, and the knife.” He watches him for a moment. “When did you get so wise?”

He shrugs. “I know something about the things older siblings are expected to sacrifice for their youngers.”

Jim looks up. “You’re an older sibling?”

“No.”

“Oh.” He falls silent for a moment, and traces the lines on Spock’s back absent-mindedly.

Thunder rumbles outside, and Spock tenses, but relaxes almost immediately into his touch.

Lightning flashes. Jim thinks about the night that he was struck by it, and nuzzles into Spock’s shoulder. “Meld with me,” he whispers. “I just want to be close to you.”

Spock turns, slowly, and lifts Jim’s chin slightly. He kisses him gently, and places his hand over his face. “Your mind to my mind,” he murmurs against his mouth.

Jim slumps.

He sees flashes of images. Thoughts which are at once fleeting, and familiar. People who he’s suddenly known all his life. _Sarek. Amanda. Sybok. Michael._ His family, and the terrible pain which accompanies it.

 _Sam. Winona. Aurelian. George._ Spock’s breath is hot on his cheek. _Tarsus IV is mockingly beautiful, the skies overhead a haunting pink, brighter than the rocks on Heirin. The skies over Vulcan burn red as they’re ripped away, and Spock beams onto the ship alone, without his mother. Jim stabs the boy whose name he never learned. Pike tells Nero the command codes to override the Starfleet defence grid, and The Nerada drills a hole through The San Andreas Fault. Red Matter. The singularity engulfs Earth._

Jim pulls away, gasping, and grasps at Spock’s hands.

‘ _Spock…’_

They’re unmelded, and yet, they talk without words.

Jim’s first kiss. He places a hand to his head, almost dizzy, and stares into Spock’s eyes.

A warmth flows down Jim’s spine. He straightens up, and Spock shivers in turn.

‘ _What’s happening?’_ Jim grips his arm.

‘ _A bond is forming between us,’_ Spock says. _‘If you wish, I could stop it-’_

‘ _No,’_ Jim says. _‘It’s okay.’_

‘ _Our minds will be joined, forever,’_ Spock warns.

‘ _Spock,’_ As the sensation overwhelms him, Jim struggles to form non-abstract thought. _‘We’re already the only people here.’_

‘ _You don’t understand the significance-’_

But Jim _does._

They kiss without touching, the space between them filled with knowledge and words and sensation. He seeks Spock’s body, and phrases chase after him. _Parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched._ He gets a glimpse of a hundred horrible, meaningless things- everything Spock’s counterpart showed him, Nero, the torture they endured- and a million pleasant things fight back, a thousand times more beautiful. Happy memories. His childhood on Vulcan, his childhood on Earth, their history becoming as entangled and inseparable as a vine on a tree. _T’hy’la._ They fall back onto the mattress, and Jim holds two fingers out, and, somehow, knows it’s an _ozh’esta_.

Spock joins fingers with him, and he trembles, every point on his body alight with sensation. He twists, and writhes, as Spock presses kisses to his forehead, neck, and shoulders. He doesn’t know if he does it with his mind or his mouth, but his fingers roam elsewhere. Jim can hardly keep track, and he throws his head back and sobs with overstimulation, but he doesn’t want it to stop. They’re caught in a feedback loop of each other’s thoughts and emotions, and Spock’s mind is incandescent.

_You are the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen._

_As are you._

They fold together, breathing heavily, burnt out. Spock rests his head against Jim’s chest, and Jim holds him protectively. In this moment, he could save him from anything.

Spock headbutts him gently, as if trying to dissolve into him.

They fall asleep curled together, their bodies as entwined as their souls.


	7. Not A Single Friend

Light streams through the window, and Jim rolls onto his side with a sleepy smile. “Morning,” he hums.

Spock watches him intensely, and it’s only when his eyebrows raise slightly that Jim realises he’s trying to communicate.

“The bond?” He croaks, pushing himself up on his elbow.

Spock shakes his head. “It didn’t survive…” His brow furrows. “The planet’s restorative abilities did their job too well.”

Over the next few days, Spock becomes more withdrawn. It doesn’t worry Jim, exactly; Spock always does this whenever they reach a new obstacle. Perhaps he blames himself. Hell, Jim’s been inside his mind; he _knows_ he blames himself.

Jim throws himself back into research. He scours every archive he can find, reading the names of wanted smugglers in this sector, anyone who could have disappeared here, anyone who could have a clue. If getting out of here is the only way for them to retain their bond- and their bond is the only thing which will make Spock happy- then he needs to find a solution.

Jim sits near the guardrail, his legs dangling over the edge of the Veranda, and hears soft footsteps behind him. He turns, with a sad, slight smile.

“I was thinking about Earth,” Jim murmurs. “Being trapped here almost makes it easier to cope with. Do you find that?”

Spock gives a hesitant nod. “Earth was similar to this planet in many ways-”

A huff of laughter. “No, I mean- I can almost pretend that being trapped here is the only reason I won’t see it again,” Jim whispers.

Spock nods, and joins him beside the guard rail.

They sit in silence for a moment. The dark leaves of the forest rustle all around them; the first warning of the oncoming weather, and Spock wraps his arms tighter around Jim. When the first drops fall, they barely feel them; too lost in one another’s mind.

With storms like these, eternity is hard to weather. Jim tries to keep track of time, but, if it was hard before, it’s impossible now. He would have thought Spock’s own, immaculate sense of time would keep him in check, but, instead, he wonders if he’s rubbed off on him.

‘ _Or perhaps I was never as good at keeping time as you thought.’_

‘ _Well, spending time trapped in a time-loop will do that to a person,’_ Jim comments.

Spock massages his temples, as if dispelling a headache. _‘Perhaps we should practise your ability to block certain thoughts. It’s not necessary for me to know your every thought.’_

‘ _Ah, but you love it.’_ Jim kisses him.

Once it’s repaired, they take the shuttle for a short test flight over the forest. They don’t dare take it further until they have a more concrete escape plan, but Jim stays in the front seat a little longer once they’ve landed, double checking every part of the controls. There’s a lot about this shuttle he doesn’t understand- it’s got features he’s never seen before: some are experimental, some are prototypes. There’s an abundance of suspicious and dangerous-sounding subroutines. A large file size piques his interest, particularly because it’s nestled within a list of comparatively smaller files.

**File Name | size**

**11292254qDefp.mp4 | 28.5TB**

**11302254RsTwy.mp4 | 22.23TB**

**11312254Ghtf2.mp4 | 58.334601151 PiB**

**12302253lCmdp.mp4 | 21.56TB**

He stares. 58 _pebibytes_ of information. It must be using all the shuttle’s available memory space. He searches through its parent folders.

‘ **Overseer Protocol:** **_Active.’_ **

Curious, he selects it.

‘ **Admin override required.’**

He inputs Leland’s password, but the system refuses to accept it. Whatever the overseer protocol is, it was clearly intended to keep Leland in line. It takes Jim a couple of tries to override the system without the password.

There’s a bleep.

The video files load in their raw form: dates, followed by a series of timestamps.

**28 Oct: 24:23:09**

**29 Oct: 25:00:00**

**30 Oct: 19:30:03**

The screen flickers, and freezes for a moment as the numbers load.

**25:56:03**

An error sound.

**625:56:04**

**5625:56:05**

**31 Oct: 45625:56:07**

He exhales. The seconds keep ticking up. His heart pounds in his ears.

He chooses the file from October 30th, and picks a timestamp towards the end. The screen pulls up two videos, side-by-side. Two cameras. One of them displays the exterior of the shuttle, the other, the interior. The int. screen is pitch black, and the ext. is extremely dim. The only sound is the faint rustle of the trees, battered by the wind. He rolls the video back, and lands on footage of the three of them on that first day, unloading the shuttle. He clenches his fist as he watches the early relationship between Leland and Spock, and he considers just how far he’s come. In some ways, it’s a miracle he ever got away from Leland at all; and a cynical part of him wonders if, perhaps, he never did. Jim glances to the entrance to the basement with an uneasy feeling.

Spock has moments like the other night- flashes of affection- and then seems to draw back in on himself. Granted, Jim never expected it to happen all at once, but he almost believed that would be it- one final mind meld, and he would be able to save Spock. He’d forgotten, of course, just how many times Spock had melded with him before. It could be that first times- all the times which were erased from Jim’s memory- are easier than the second.

He assured Spock that he’s not trying to get him to behave more human, not holding him to Vulcan stereotypes or standards, or a strict section-31 regimen, as Leland would have. But, still, there are days where he cannot reach him.

He watches as he and Spock enter the forest, and Leland begins to move the crates of power packs towards the entrance of the basement.

Jim clicks the video off, and chooses an entry from the 29th. More of the same. Leland, crashing the shuttle through the Martian dome with barely a scratch.

As for that final entry…

The shuttle must have continued recording the whole time they were in the time-loop. The internal clock is programmed for the Martian 25-hour standard, perhaps because Mars Colony was the last chartered place the shuttle landed on, though the days aren’t nearly as long on Heirin- they’re perhaps nineteen, twenty hours maximum.

There are perhaps six Earth-years’ worth of footage crammed into this one device. He wonders how many recordings there are of himself or Leland dying, and his stomach turns. He doesn’t really want to know, but the monitor could have other uses. He ends the recording manually, and switches to a new recording. He waves his hand in front of the screen experimentally. The interior camera appears to be built right into the screen.

He disconnects the monitor carefully, and weighs it in his hands for a moment. It’s small, and relatively weighty. He considers showing it to Spock, but, after a moment’s hesitation, he drags it into the server room. He’s not sure if Spock would want to be reminded of how long he’s spent here. Not yet.

He plugs the monitor into the console, though it appears to have some internal, backup power-source. The video files have disappeared- no doubt stored in the shuttle, as the monitor’s internal storage is comparatively smaller. Jim leaves it by the consoles for now.

Jim is attempting to balance on one leg.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to see if I can build up-” Jim falls over with a cry. “- Muscle,” he hisses, rubbing his hamstring with a grimace. He stands back up, and resumes the position. “We still don’t know if our bodies are entirely replaced each morning, or if it only happens when one of us is injured.” He poses. “How does my butt look?”

“The same as usual,” Spock says, dryly.

“Well, it’s early days,” Jim shrugs.

Spock hesitates, then steps a little closer. “I doubt it’s possible for you to gain much more… ‘muscle’ in this particular area,” he says, tactfully.

Jim shoots him a glare over his shoulder, and promptly overbalances. “There’s that Vulcan tact, I see.”

“This could help prove it, once and for all.”

“It is futile to attempt to prove something which runs so contrary to the laws of physics-”

Jim grabs his hand, and, with one sharp tug, Spock lands in the mud beside him, and they bump heads.

“Law of gravity,” Jim says, sheepishly, as he rubs his nose.

As far as he can tell, their bodies seem incapable of going through any kind of change. Gaining/losing weight, scarring, telepathic bonds- none of them seem to stick. They really do seem to regenerate each morning, without exception, though the rest of their surroundings wither. _And we’ll never age. It’s practically immortality,_ Jim thinks.

_If only we weren’t stuck here._

The next time Spock melds with him, a bond forms almost immediately, as it did before.

‘ _I guess that means we’re exceptionally compatible.’_

Spock tilts his head. _‘We know each other well. A bond is an inevitable side effect.’_

‘ _That’s what I said!’_

Despite its futility, Jim convinces Spock to bond with him again. And again. It becomes a strange sort of game, a dance; to go to sleep each evening aware of the other, with the ability to broadcast their every thought into the others’ head, and renew it each morning.

‘ _Are you familiar with Greek mythology?’_ Jim asks. Spock appears in front of him, with a stern frown.

‘ _If I were not, I could get the information from your mind.’_

‘ _Right,’_ Jim laughs _. ‘At first, I thought we might be living the life of Sisyphus, cursed to roll the same boulder up the hill every day. But, every time I look at you, the story of Tantalus comes to mind.’_

Spock’s eyebrows twitch. The landscape shifts, until Jim is standing neck-deep in water, watching ripples on the surface of a great lake. Spock stands on the shore.

A large willow tree looms over Jim, its leaves a delicate, olive-leaf green. Something flutters across his face, pale pink and soft. A single petal. Jim smiles serenely, and glances at the underside of the tree. Improbably- and, perhaps, _illogically_ \- it is covered with cherry blossoms, the like he hasn’t seen since Earth.

“Which am I, Jim?” Spock says, in a booming whisper. His voice echoes all around him, syllables melting into great, crashing waves. “The water you can never stoop to drink, or the fruit which is just out of reach?”

Jim focuses on the falling petals, their delicate red hue looking less familiar by the moment, and contemplates their similarity to the rocks on Heirin. Everything about this planet is overpowering: drenching, seeping into them, even in these stolen moments of serenity. Jim knows better than most how easily alliances can be shattered by violence, and, reaching out, he touches one of the petals.

“Neither,” he answers. He takes a deep breath. “I know what you’re scared of- that I, like Leland, view you as a prize to be won- but I don’t.” He considers for a moment. “But, I _do_ need you. You are only like the water because I need you to sustain me. Only like the fruit because I’m willing to wait for you to fall. This… Time loop, this _trap_ we’re caught in- I wouldn’t be able to survive it without you. You’ve demonstrated that, time and time again.”

As he’s talking, the water level shrinks to his waist.

“I don’t want to be trapped here, but there is one benefit- it gives me time to wait.”

Spock blinks. “For what?”

“You.”

Spock reaches out, and catches a falling petal. “You could be waiting for a long time.”

The echo of laughter. “As far as we know, we have eternity.” He holds his hand out, and Spock appears next to him. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and kisses him slowly.

They’re so deep in the meld that it takes daybreak to pull them out of it. Jim wakes up in bed blinking in the light. Spock is curled on his side next to him, his hand outstretched towards Jim’s forehead. It’s almost easy to believe that he fell asleep this way.

He reaches out, and cards a hand through Spock’s hair. For a moment, he allows himself to pretend that they’re just two lovers, lying together on a lazy Sunday morning with no responsibilities, and nothing else to do. But, it isn’t Sunday, and, somewhere below them, Leland is waking, too.

He kisses Spock’s wrist. He twitches in his sleep, his brows pulling together, perhaps sensing Jim’s troubled thoughts. Jim rises, and hurries downstairs as quietly as he can without sacrificing speed.

Leland’s “rise and shine” doesn’t have time to fall from his lips.

Jim spends a pleasant morning with Spock before returning to the server room for his usual dig through The Klingon archives. His Klingon has gotten really good recently, and he’s sure there must be something he’s overlooked in the top-secret war files. As he goes to input the now-familiar sequence, something catches his eye in front of him.

‘Mars-Colony gang members reported missing […] with the exception of T’Gar Taag, who was apprehended last Tuesday-”

His eyes widen, and he leans back in his chair, eyes darting around the printings and clippings laid out on the walls.

‘ _Crash-landing results in bloodbath […]_ sole survivor, _Lewis McAllister-’_

Sole survivor. Jim reaches forwards, bringing up the scribbled translations of the Klingon tomes he was able to piece together. It’s only legend.

_A time loop, sparked by the spilling of innocent blood._

A hazy memory from that first night. Perhaps it’s so hazy because it’s the last thing he remembers before he was murdered: Leland, sitting opposite him in an unknown cave, firelight painting his face, and the walls, a deep, intense red. “When the battle ended, there wasn’t a single enemy left.”

“ _And not a single friend, either,”_ Jim had joked.

He’s not laughing now. He sits in the server room for a moment, hands trembling as he contemplates his next move. Then, he rises, tears the clippings from the wall, and heads for the door. On his way out, he doubles back, and grabs the monitor which he tore from the shuttle, hugging it to his chest as he runs through the beginnings of rain.

He enters the stronghold through the main entrance, and enters the central hall. Spock is upstairs, meditating. After a moment’s deliberation, Jim stashes the print-outs under the cushions of the sofa. As for the monitor…

He grabs an axe from the wall, and steps into the downstairs bathroom.

The shower runs. It provides an interesting background to Jim’s conversation with himself. The green light paints his face a sickly sheen, and he looks almost… Undead. _It’s not entirely inappropriate,_ he thinks grimly, as he sets the axe and the monitor in the tub, and hits _record._

Spock wakes up alone, which isn’t entirely unusual, but he feels strangely uneasy.

Downstairs, Jim sits at the dining table, papers laid out all around him, as is customary for one of their escape-planning sessions; although it’s been a while since they’ve had one. The change in their surroundings is immediately apparent.

“You’ve redecorated,” Spock observes, lightly.

The remaining knives, weapons and tools have vanished from the walls, and Jim gives him a strange smile. “I thought we could use some… Variety.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, and settles in the chair opposite him. He only needs to study his face for a moment.

“You’ve found a way for us to leave,” he realises.

“No,” Jim closes his eyes. “Not _us,_ exactly…”

Jim points to one of the headlines, then the others, and begins to explain. As he listens, Spock’s heart begins to pound in his chest, and he struggles to remain outwardly calm. He feels every bit as trapped as he did that first night, when Leland had pointed a phaser at him.

He remembers the clatter as the power pack had fallen into the gap in the ceiling, and his eyes dart, momentarily, upwards.

“- But,” Jim catches his breath, “There’s another option.” He swallows. “We could stay here, together. I know I’ve said it before, but- we don’t need to eat. We don’t even, technically, need to sleep. That’s paradise, to some people. Maybe as close to it as we’re ever going to get. We’d never get old, and we could live our lives in relative comfort, until one or both of us was ready to…” He swallows. “Leave.”

Spock’s face twitches. The idea is almost tempting. Except...

“Rise and shine, campers!”

He turns to the door. “There will always be Leland.”

“A small price to pay for paradise,” Jim says.

Spock purses his lips, and begins to rise from his seat.

“No.” Jim pushes his chair back, and places a hand over Spock’s. “Allow me.”

Spock slumps, and watches as Jim exits onto the Veranda.

_Footsteps, quickly, down the stairs._

_Voices. A scuffle._

_A body hits the ground._

Outside, Jim drags Leland’s body towards the forest, and Spock watches them until they’re out of sight.

He sits. He sits and contemplates, for how long, he does not know.

He considers everything that Jim had told him. With his strength, it would be easy to kill Leland with his bare hands. But, _Jim?_ If the man turned on him, he would certainly have the physical strength to defend himself, but there are other factors to consider.

“ _Theoretically, if we’re here long enough… Axes will blunt. Knives will wear down.”_

They would have to kill Leland with their bare hands, day after day after day. And- if ever Jim got bored of him, as humans are wont to do- he would have to rid himself of Spock in the same, clumsy way. _Vulcans are patient_ , Leland had said. But, he was raised by humans, and he has murdered his fathers too many times to cling onto any concept of remorse. For surely- _surely_ \- somewhere, after years of two-person solitude in this desert of companionship, Jim will tire of a world where the only person to quench his thirst is a Vulcan. Spock can foresee it with almost-perfect clarity: a day where Jim will bore, and he will only be able to repay him in blood.

As if moved by some external force, Spock hurries upstairs, and retrieves one of the empty phasers which Leland had left in the third drawer of the nightstand. Then, he returns downstairs, and pushes one of the dining chairs to the center of the room.

He climbs onto it. Blindly, he reaches into the gap in the ceiling, searching for the power pack which Leland had lost, yesterday and so many years ago. After all this time, there’s no guarantee that it will still work, and a part of him hopes that it won’t.

So much has changed since that first night. In many ways, they have become complacent of the danger Leland poses to them, a danger which is very likely to return.

And, there are so many ways that it could go wrong. If, one day, either one of them forgets to kill Leland, he could kill one or both of them instead. They have already been clumsy too many times. If it happens again, and Leland succeeds in killing one of them by mistake, they would lose their memories. Even if a mind meld could partially restore them, it would put them at a dangerous disadvantage.

And Leland need only be lucky once.

There are other things, too. Spock appreciates an adherence to routine; he does not know if the same is true for Jim. And, when one takes into account the enormity of eternity, it may not even be true for himself.

A part of him longs to put it to the test. To see how many eons they could go on thriving in this remote place. Never growing older, even as the stronghold around them was eroded by the winds of time. They could repair it, to a point, but, eventually, they would have to rebuild it from the woods that surround them. Fashioning their own tools as the old fell to ruin. That would certainly speed up the daily ritual of _what must be done._

_A small price to pay for paradise._

__

But, truly, how many times could they bear the stain of Leland’s blood? The man isn’t innocent by any stretch of the imagination, but, if there’s any truth in the terran concept of “purgatory”, has enough time elapsed to pay off his debt? At any rate, they’re not dealing with a world of terran invention, but it can’t be a Klingon one, either: in this instance, _The Last Man Standing_ would be without honour.

How long before the ravine to the East becomes full of identical corpses, as the clearing in the woods was once overcrowded with Jim’s? And, in truth, is still overcrowded. There’s no room to start a life together on a planet littered with one another’s bones.

Mining the planet by hand if they had to. Perhaps they would even uncover the buried Time Crystal which keeps them trapped here, and a way to destroy it. But, even as he allows himself to dream, he knows it’s impossible. If there is any pattern to his life so far, any truth in the instruction given to him by Leland, it is this:

Vulcans are patient. Humans are not.

Most importantly, any exceptions aside: _James Kirk_ is not. Jim, the man who bet the late Christopher Pike that he could graduate in four years, and have command of his own ship in five. Jim, the man who cheated on The Kobayashi Maru.

Still, the test was designed to be unbeatable. And, perhaps- _perhaps_ \- if Jim Kirk was willing to sit an unbeatable test three times- he may not be so impatient after all. Perhaps, somehow, through the combined stubbornness that’s sustained them so far, they will find another solution-

The door opens behind him. Spock swings round, still balanced precariously on the chair, and Jim stops dead in his tracks.

Without breaking eye contact, Spock slots the power pack into place, and levels the phaser at Jim.

Jim stares at him, open-mouthed. Spock steps down from the chair, and Jim settles into a grim smile. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t run.

They stare at each other like exhausted children, waiting for a drawn-out game of make-believe to finally end.

 _Humans are impatient,_ Spock assures himself. He waits for Jim to make the first move, but he doesn’t even twitch. Conceivably, they could both stand here forever.

His fingers find the trigger.

 _He_ is impatient.

He fires.


	8. Tomorrow

There’s a gap in the front of the shuttle where one of the monitors used to be, but Spock doesn’t allow himself to get distracted by it.

He follows the familiar steps laid out in their previous escape attempts, and, this time, steers clear of the area of space where the Section-31 ships await. Leland’s original orders were to rendezvous with Georgiou’s ship, but the war between Starfleet and the Klingons isn’t his business anymore, and he already knows he won’t be welcomed back to the organisation. He keeps flying towards the former neutral zone- as neutral as you can get in this quadrant anyway- until his eyes begin to droop. It’s as if the accumulated weight of all his nights without meditation were suddenly weighing down on him.

Plans will need to be made- perhaps he can pass himself off as a Romulan- but, for now, he heads towards the back of the shuttle, and settles on the cold, hard shelf. Now that there’s nothing to distract himself from the fact he’s escaped, he tries not to focus on the _ how. _ And yet, it’s hard not to miss the steady chatter of Jim’s heart, or mind.  _ Jim,  _ his heart says. _ Jim, Jim, Jim. _

He settles on the cold, hard shelf at the back of the shuttle, and, for the first time in an eternity, falls into a deep, meditative rest.

_ Alone. _

When Spock wakes on a familiar, soft mattress, he doesn’t immediately question it. But, a second later, his eyes snap open, and he sits bolt upright.

The familiar, worn walls of the stronghold surround him.

_ Jim was wrong _ , he thinks, despairingly.  _ There’s no way out. _

He runs his hands along the soft duvet, and footsteps scamper downstairs.

_ Jim is alive. _

He shoots out of bed, and takes the stairs two steps at a time, each punctuated by a metal clunk. He glances at the sofa expectantly, but Jim isn’t there. He doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the hall; though-

A thin line of blood leads into the downstairs bathroom.

He falters.

“I guess I’ll never really know for sure, because you won’t remember it, and  _ I _ won’t even see it coming.”

Jim’s voice is emanating from the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar, and he stops outside it, heart thumping.

“… But, if you’re listening to this right now, then there’s really only one answer-”

“Jim?” He pushes his way in, and tenses as he takes in the bloodstains, the frenzied scrawl. Jim’s voice is coming from a pre-recorded message on a monitor, which Spock recognises from the shuttle.

“- You need to get out there, and…” He looks into the camera. “You know what you have to do.”

Spock backs out of the room as panic grips his chest. “Jim?” He shouts.

The air is filled with a faint whistling sound. He whirls around.

The realisation, and the crossbow arrow, hit him at the same time.

“Ah!” He raises his hand, and another arrow to lodges itself in his palm. The world spins, and he grunts with pain.

He has just enough sense to dodge the next arrow, and slams himself into the wall. “Immensely… Logical, Jim,” he hisses, and struggles to pull the arrow out with a grunt. “You didn’t kill Leland yesterday, did you? You only… knocked him out.” He grits his teeth and attempts to snap the end of the arrow off.

A creak. Spock throws himself to the floor as another arrow flies past.

“Stop shooting at me!”

He grips his injured hand limply, and breathes heavily. “Do you know the first thing I felt, when I woke up?”

Another arrow. Spock crawls around the corner for refuge. “I was-” an arrow flies past, and he tucks his legs in. “- Relieved, that you weren’t dead,” he wheezes.

A loud thud, followed by silence. Perhaps he has run out of arrows.

“Jim?”

Footsteps. He catches his breath and waits, listening to every slow, deliberate step.

The footfalls are too heavy to be Jim’s. Which means-

He shuffles backwards, and a tall figure steps around the corner; wielding the half-filled phaser Spock had discarded yesterday.

“Leland,” Spock breathes.

He stuns him.

  


“…  _ Don’t want to lie to him.” _

Jim’s voice.

“ _ Which is why I’m going to offer him a solution...” _

Spock peeks out from under his eyelashes. Leland is standing a few metres away, holding the bloodstained monitor.

“…  _ You know what you have to do.” _

The message ends, and Leland turns. Spock opens his eyes. He’s by the far wall, a short distance from the fireplace. Jim is slumped in front of it with his arms tied behind his back.

His hand has been wrapped in a familiar, plaid fabric, and the arrow has been removed from his hand. It still throbs, painfully. H is hands are bound loosely in front of him, but his legs are free. Unlike Jim, he is gagged; perhaps with the rest of the fabric. He stares up at Leland, groggily.

“I bandaged it.” Leland says. His lip curves upwards. “You’re not getting out of this that easily.”

Spock stirs, sluggish from the phaser blast, and Leland steps closer.

“According to this-” he holds up the blood-stained monitor, and leers at him. “- You’re the only one of us who hasn’t been killed yet. Is that true?” He crouches beside him, and Spock turns his head away, averting his gaze. Leland grabs his jaw roughly, forcing him to face him as he examines his face for the slightest flicker of emotion. He stares ahead. He tries to keep his face impassive, but Leland always  _ could _ read him better than most.

He blinks, and Leland laughs. “Isn’t that  _ interesting,” _ he murmurs. He leans in a little closer, so his lips graze his ear. “I bet you’re  _ so tired,” _ he says, breath hot. “That eidetic memory… You can remember it all, can’t you? Every miserable day-”

Spock flinches away, but Leland tuts, and places the dagger under his chin. “Come on, Spock. That’s a lot of blood on your hands. Don’t you just want it to end? No?”

Spock keeps his gaze trained on him.

He leers. “I guess Vulcans don’t have a guilty conscience. You’ve killed both of us more times than you can count. Well,” he amends, “Perhaps you  _ can _ count them. You’ve always been good at that-”

“Leave him alone,” Jim croaks.

Leland rises again. “You’re sure that’s what you want? I mean, he  _ did  _ kill you, multiple times.”

“So did you.”

“True,” Leland shrugs. “But  _ he _ killed you, right after you’d promised to _ love each other forever and ever, _ right?” His voice is high and mocking, and Jim struggles against his bonds.

“You weren’t there,” he grunts.

Leland grins. “Technically, neither were you. And we already know how that pact turned out.” He grasps Spock’s injured hand, and lifts it up.

“Leland-”

“- What’s the objection? You had the right idea earlier. Do you just want to kill him yourself? That’s very selfish of you, James.” He tuts. “After all, I should get dibs.” He squeezes his hand suddenly, and Spock cries out, the sound muffled.

Leland stares at him, eyes wide, and turns to Jim. “You’ve ruined my Vulcan!” He laughs to himself. “Still, there’s time to correct that.” He strokes Spock’s hand, almost gentle, though each movement is still enough to cause pain.

Spock narrows his eyes at him, and flinches away, but Leland holds him steady.

“Now, Spock,” he murmurs. “I can keep you both here for as long as I like, and make you pay for every single time you killed me. Still, I could always reset you.” He retrieves a dagger from his belt. “There were some very interesting things in the basement this morning- well-hidden, James, but not enough.”

He barely glances over his shoulder, and Spock exhales. Leland has eyes only for him, and he knows with a terrible certainty that he intends to make him suffer. As if reading his thoughts, Leland places the dagger under Spock’s chin. “How about we give him a turn first? It’s up to you, James. I mean… You- well,  _ he-”  _ He taps the monitor screen. “- Seemed fairly adamant that you wanted him dead.”

“Screw you,” Jim hisses.

“Shame,” Leland discards the monitor, and it shatters on the floor.  _ “That _ version of you actually had some balls. If you hadn’t tried to kill me so much, we might have got along.”

“Maybe that’s  _ why _ we would have got along,” Jim hisses. Spock breathes shallowly, his chest suddenly constricted, and wills Jim to stop antagonising him; but, of course, they are not bonded. With a sudden pang, he wonders if they will ever be able to bond again.

“Maybe,” Leland acknowledges. “Still, I intend to get out of here. Once I attend to our… Unfinished business.”

“Leland-”

“Shush. I’ll get round to you later. But, for now-”

He cuts the gag away, though there’s no chance of him speaking. He remembers what it was like before. Anything he says will make it worse. He calls, desperately, on all the skills he hasn’t employed in a while. He makes his face slack, and lets his mind go blank. But, yesterday was the closest he had come to a successful meditation session in a while, and Leland is studying him with nothing short of glee.

“You know, it’s a shame you killed that other version of James,” Leland murmurs. “Once you betrayed him, I b et  _ he _ would have wanted to stay, and watch me kill you over, and over and over.”

Jim sits deadly still, his eyes wide, but Spock can see his arms twitching behind his back, as if reaching for something. Hope flares in his chest, but he clamps down on the feeling, attempting to martial his emotions.

“ But, seeing as I only need to kill you once, let’s make it count, hmm?” He runs his fingers across Spock’s meld points, and sends fleeting visions of everything he plans to do to them. Spock closes his eyes, trying to block out the thoughts. When that fails, he recalls an image of Leland’s own, broken body, lying at the bottom of the ravine. Leland snatches his hand away.

“ Congratulations,” He growls. “Now you’ve made me angry.” He raises the dagger.

Spock kicks out at him with a grunt, but Leland side-steps him easily.

“ Surely you remember your training?” He hisses, gripping Spock’s chin. “That’s no way to behave towards a superior officer-”

Spock snaps at his hand, and Leland slams his head against the wall. Jim yells something

“ I think James wants to watch the show,” Leland sings. He grips Spock’s hair this time, near the scalp. Grinning, he tilts his head back to expose his neck, and Spock’s breathing quickens. Leland presses the dagger to his throat.

“I said,  _ let him go, asshole,” _ Jim growls. His voice sounds closer than before, but Spock doesn’t dare tear his gaze away from Leland’s.

“ You disappoint me, James,” Leland sighs. “You’d want revenge, if you weren’t weak.”

“ Maybe I am,” Jim says. “But there’s one thing I didn’t mention in that recording.”

The knife breaks the skin, and Spock can feel blood beading around the cut.

“ And what’s that?” Leland hisses, never breaking eye contact.

Behind him, Jim gets to his feet silently.

“ There’s a knife in my pocket.”

The pressure vanishes from Spock’s throat.

Leland turns too late. Jim stabs him in the side, but it’s not deep enough; it can’t be. Spock has seen this before; at the very start of the time-loop: without his memories, Jim’s skill in hand-to-hand combat is no match for Leland’s. He strains against the ropes which are holding him- he’d be able to break them, if his hand wasn’t injured. As it stands, all he can do is stare. A thin trickle of blood runs down his neck.

“ Jim, be careful!” He pleads.

Jim dodges Leland’s first strike, and pulls the knife out. They struggle. Leland grasps Jim’s wrist, and attempts to force his hand back, but Jim knees him in the stomach.

Leland lands a glancing blow to his shoulder, and Jim sucks in his breath. He knocks Leland’s arm out of the way, driving the knife into his arm, and Leland bellows angrily as he drops the dagger. Jim loses his grip on his own weapon, and Leland tears at it. Blood gushes from his forearm as he rips it free, painting his arm red. With a yell, he swipes at Jim with his left-hand, as a dark stain spreads on the side of his torso. Jim dives for the dagger, and Leland pins him to the ground, swiping at him. Jim grasps the dagger, and kicks Leland off momentarily, the two of them moving faster than Spock can keep track of.

They struggle together until Leland falls to the ground, and doesn’t get up.

“ Fuck.” Jim sits up, trembling, and disentangles himself from the body. Leland’s blood is smeared across his face in places, so the damage isn’t immediately apparent.

But Jim’s breathing is laboured.

“ Jim?” Spock whispers.

“ Spock…” Jim’s voice wavers. He clutches a hand across his stomach, and looks down at it, dazed. “Oh…”

He falls sideways.

Spock rushes over. Both blades lie on the floor beside them, covered in blood. It isn’t clear which one caused the fateful blow. He reaches for the knife, and cuts the ropes from his arms clumsily, and reaches for Jim.

When he touches him, Jim grits his teeth, and gestures to the wound.

“ It’s- bad,” he twitches.

“ No,” Spock pulls his head onto his lap, gently, and places a hand over his forehead. “I can help.”

“ No-”

“ Let me help.”

“ Spock.” He shakes his head. “You can’t prolong it ‘til sundown. It’s okay. It was…” He grunts. “My fault.”

“ Jim-”

He places a kiss against his injured wrist, and blinks up at him. “I’m sorry for… shooting you,” he wheezes. “That was a… Stupid thing to do.” He smiles shakily, and tears well in his eyes as he clutches his side.

“You were just following your own advice” Spock replies, as Jim gives a soft chuckle, and winces.

“It was- bad advice,” he hisses. “Too- open to interpretation.” He places a hand to Spock’s face gently. “I’m glad I got to love you. I only wish that I could remember any of it.”

Spock shakes his head.  “In your condition, an influx of memories of that volume would kill you.”

Jim places Spock’s hand against his face, and laughs weakly. “Spock,” he coughs, “I’m dying anyway.”

Spock hesitates, but Jim nuzzles into his palm.  _ ‘Didn’t want to hurt you,’ _ he thinks, as he brushes his fingers against Spock’s cheek.

“It’s okay, if you won’t show me. I know I loved you,” he hacks up blood. “But- who you love... That’s your own business.” Perhaps it’s intended to be vitriolic, but, he almost sounds sincere. Serene. He smiles, and nudges his forehead to Spock’s palm. “Go ahead,” he whispers. “It’s OK.”

“Jim.” Spock surveys his injuries, and knows, from all the other times he’s watched him die, that he won’t survive.

‘ _ I shouldn’t have killed Leland,’  _ Jim thinks. _ ‘That was- clumsy. I should have kept him alive so we could regenerate, but… Now… You leave.’ _

Spock strokes his hair. He concentrates, broadcasting an outpouring of love and affection into his mind, as Jim’s eyes flutter closed.

_ Ashayam, stay with me. _

He despairs. He was a fool. He should have spent a little longer cherishing the chance to cradle Jim like this. They could have had eternity. Now, they have only moments. He understands now, far too late, the full depths of what Jim had offered. It is a rare thing, to have a  _ t’hy’la. _ He should have know, every time they dispatched Leland, that they were only strengthening it: a warrior’s bond. And, although he knows it’s useless, he delves deeper into Jim’s dying mind, triggering that familiar spark, as a bond forms between them for the final time. Spock lets go, pouring his memories into him. Jim relaxes, his breathing levelling out, and Spock strokes his hair.

_ You are… incandescent. _

Jim stirs.

_ As are you. _

He remains close to him for many hours, sustaining his life-force for as long as he can, as the buzz of Jim’s mind shrinks, and dims.

Spock closes his eyes, and collapses back against the wall, cradling him. Yesterday’s euphoria is long gone.

He drifts to sleep, no longer interested in escaping- not now. He’d be content to rot here forever, with a thousand identical corpses.

He dreams of Vulcan. He walks across the dark sands, warmer than he’s been in a while, but oh so weighed down by guilt.

Red light floods through the windows, and Spock’s eyes flutter open. For a moment, he can almost believe he’s back on Vulcan, the glare from the red sands unbearable in first-light, but the moment passes. He frowns, so used to waking to clear skies and mid-morning light that he almost doesn’t recognise the phenomenon.

Dawn.

Spock’s hand aches. He raises it. It hasn’t healed, of course. The bandages are soaked through, but the bleeding has stopped. It has been so long since his injuries lasted that he is almost grateful for it.

“We made it,” he says, with a cracked voice. He glances down at Jim; so peaceful he could almost be sleeping. He looks over to Leland, half-expecting him to move, but neither of them do. His gaze drifts.

Leland is lying in a puddle of blood, but most of Jim’s has seeped into Spock’s clothing, half-dried against his skin. Slowly, he eases Jim to the ground, and places him gently on his side.

_ You should move,  _ a distant part of his mind whispers, but it’s a small part, and he is too numb to process it. Whatever it is, it doesn’t speak again. He desperately needs water; thirsty like he hasn’t been in a long time- but, still, he sits. He welcomes the discomfort: as proof that he’s made it through, and, as punishment.

_ I have killed my t’hy’la and my friend. _

His gaze drifts.

The ground outside is waterlogged and muddy: for the first time, it’s covered in rainfall from the storm. As the sun rises, a slightly larger spacecraft sets down beside the shuttle, and he closes his eyes. For a moment, there is silence. The perfect conditions to meditate; though it’s been so long, he’s almost forgotten how.

Voices, getting nearer.

He reaches a hand out to Jim, and, trembling a little, pulls back.

Footsteps on the balcony. The door opens with a rattle.

He looks up.

Two figures are silhouetted against the light; a section-31 agent he doesn’t recognise, and-

“Why is the Klingon defence grid still active?”

Phillipa Georgiou. Her hair is dishevelled, and she steps into the hall. “The attack is in five hours, Leland. This is sloppy, even for you-”

She stops.

Spock leans his head against the wall, and says nothing.

“What… Happened?” Says the unknown agent; as they take in the carnage.

Georgiou crosses the room in two, quick steps, and nudges Leland’s body with her foot. “Shame,” she laments. “I always wanted to be the one to kill him.” Her gaze turns to Spock. “Still,” she cocks her head, and her phaser, “I should probably thank you for sparing me the trouble.”

Spock allows himself a small, thin smile. “Trouble?” He murmurs. “You have no idea.”

Georgiou stares at him, then fiddles with the settings on the phaser. “Then again; you could have waited until after your mission was complete to do it.”

“It was never going to be done,” Spock says, as he watches the phaser. He’s almost relieved. It’ll be quick.

“Well, Spock-” She nods to the agent, who backs out of the room. “- Thank you for nothing. I’ll see you in hell.”

“Perhaps.” He chuckles. “Or, maybe…”

He presses his forehead to the cool metal, still laughing, and she frowns at him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Imzadi_Deanna for her patience, wisdom and enthusiasm. Thank you to Cy for running the Halloween Bang, otherwise I never would have started writing this. I expected it to be a bloated mess of a fic and I think it's some of my best work so far. I've learned a lot and had a lot of fun. And, finally, thank you for reading this. There is a sequel in the works for everyone who desperately wants to see more of this iteration of Spock and Jim, with a lot more time-travelling whacky goodness, but, for now, I will say goodbye. - Marlin

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tantalus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365411) by [Marlinsart (Marlinspirkhall)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marlinspirkhall/pseuds/Marlinsart)




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